


The Sasha Plot

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (she thinks she's a bard she's not), ...Bard Wilde, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Gen, It's dead siblings au guys. time to get attached., Rogue Brock Rackett, Sorcerer Aziza al-Tahan, Swashbuckler/Fighter Feryn Smith, Team as Family, lovingly known as the forbidden au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Join Brock, Aziza, Feryn, and Wilde as they begin the extended Pathfinder campaign: The Sasha Plot.In this episode, Oscar Wilde can’t sleep, Brock Rackett can’t find his cousin, Feryn Smith can’t stay out of trouble, Aziza al-Tahan can’t land a lead role, and the lot of them are about to be so very, very screwed.(Or: "So we all agreed - it's about being as miserable as possible on paper for as long as possible.""No?????")





	1. Hello!

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to what is decidedly _not_ the rusty quill gaming podcast! 
> 
> I'm Connor and with me I have ross, who has been an absolute gem by a) putting me on this au and b) listening to me yell for almost a month as I amassed enough content to publish. I don't know why it's so long but we're here now and we're all just gonna deal with it. also a thank you to emma! who helped out with the conception of this thing. 
> 
> buckle up, and don't forget to enjoy :)

A Meritocratic agent and a separatist walk into a bar. (Kidding. They do not. Not yet. They will, when times are hard, but that’s not now. Don’t worry about it.)

A Meritocratic agent follows a thief into a set of tunnels in a last-ditch attempt to convince himself that he’s not losing his mind. Halfway across the continent, the separatist has taken his brother’s advice and is avoiding opera traffic as he makes his way to Notre Dame. The thief and the singer don’t know that they’ll be inseparable yet. The Meritocratic agent and the separatist don’t know that they’ll grow to trust each other with their lives but never make it through a conversation without bickering. Not yet. They don’t even know each other’s names.

Oscar Wilde can’t sleep. Brock Rackett can’t find his cousin. Feryn Smith can’t stay out of trouble. Aziza al-Tahan can’t land a lead role. They don’t know that they’ll fight tooth and nail and claw for each other, not yet. They will, when times are hard, but that’s not now. 

See, everyone says that Sasha is dead. Everyone  _ says  _ that Sasha’s dead, but Brock doesn’t believe it; even Other London folks rarely know what’s going on in Other London anyway. Brock is just sure that his father is up to something, and Sasha’s paying the price, but she’s not  _ dead.  _ She can’t be dead. Sasha Rackett doesn’t just die because Barret said so. Sasha’s never done  _ anything  _ because Barret said so. 

(Sasha is dead. Sasha’s been dead for a while. You’ll see.)

There are roads under London, and then there are tunnels. While the roads connect a winding city of moral debauchery and bad circumstance, no one knows what the tunnels do. Except Barret. Barret knows everything that happens underground, and Brock is  _ certain  _ that the tunnels have something to do with him. He’s certain that the tunnels have something to do with Sasha’s disappearance, too, because Sasha was—  _ is—  _ a good thief. She’s proper Other London, the stab-first-ask-later-type, and she wouldn’t be stupid enough to get herself killed. 

She might be angry enough, though, to let Barret back her into a corner and not realise until it’s too late. Barret is the only enemy who could come close to death’s protege without getting his throat slit. Brock doesn’t know what Barret has done to Sasha, but Sasha’s gone silently. Sasha never goes silently unless  _ she  _ wants to, and she never leaves without saying goodbye. 

See, Brock is being followed. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will, when the posh man slips up, and he will. Oscar Wilde is a damn good illusionist but even he can’t fake his way over loose cobblestone, and especially not when he hasn’t slept. He puts up a good fight, but the tripping was inevitable, and Brock freezes. 

“Sasha?” he asks, even though he knows Sasha slides through the dark and makes her home there. 

A voice from the tunnels answers, “Who’s Sasha?” and it’s not Wilde. 

See, Wilde’s just come back from Paris on Meritocratic orders to investigate l’Arc d’Ordinateur, and he had an objectively good time doing so. There was nothing suspicious about the place, despite all evidence to the contrary. Wilde searched thoroughly, did a few interviews, did a few  _ interviews,  _ pulled rank to gain access to some key files, and took the train home. 

There are two things wrong with this picture. One: Wilde’s work investigations  _ never  _ go this well. Two: ever since the first night he searched the tunnels under l’Arc d’Ordinateur, his sleep has been mottled with uneasy flashes of memories that never happened. There’s no lead for Wilde’s conscious mind to follow in Paris, though, nowhere he can go without raising suspicion. 

Then Wilde found the boy, and the tunnels, and something in his gut said that the wrongness was familiar. Now the ceiling is asking about a Sasha, and Wilde breathes a sigh of relief with the confirmation that he hasn’t gone completely mental. 

“Holy fuck,” Brock breathes, and looks up. 

* * *

Halfway across the continent, Feryn Smith is in something of a bind. He’s used to it, though, and he’s not worried. He’s the best damn Harlequin around, and he’s on a mission, which means he’s nothing short of unstoppable. There’s corruption in Paris, which means it’s Feryn’s job to do what the Meritocratic don’t and protect people like they’re  _ people,  _ not unruly dogs. 

Or, he  _ would,  _ if there wasn’t all this fucking opera traffic. It’s a struggle to even walk anywhere, which is absolutely ridiculous. The theatre is too close to Feryn’s hotel to avoid, which means he’s stuck in the lobby waiting for his contact. The lodgings are nicer than what Feryn’s used to, but he’s also not travelling with a team. The place is close enough to l’Arc d’Ordinateur to justify the indulgence, and the room itself is modest. Feryn’s still uncomfortable with the opulence, though, twisting his ring on his finger as he scans the crowd outdoors. 

He’s looking for Amelie Rose, the Heart who led him here, but his eyes are drawn instead to the loudly weeping halfling who’s just burst through the door. (And what better way to introduce a Tahan?) She’s dressed in a long, flowing dress that almost hides the burns on her neck, and she pushes past the secretary in a fashion so dramatic Feryn’s not sure if she’s genuine. The weirdest bit, though, is that none of the staff are paying her any mind, just letting the halfling pass as she wails. 

Head in hands, she slams bodily into Feryn’s chest and recoils, prompting a grumble from the man standing nearby. “Oh!” she hiccups miserably, staring up at him from — well. Feryn’s a tall dwarf, but he’s still short by most standards. This halfling is so small she has to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. “Oh, gosh, s-sorry, I—”

“You’re alright, I— hey, listen, can I do anything to help?” Feryn asks, because Amelie is pretty fucking late (she’s also pretty fucking dead, but spoilers) and the halfling is having a much more immediate crisis. “I mean—”

“No, it’s fine!” she sobs, wiping ineffectually at her eyes and only managing to smear eyeshadow everywhere. “It’s f-fine! I’m— I’m— it’s not imp-portant; I’m just—”

“Let’s get out of the lobby, at least,” Feryn says as the halfling’s words crumble into gulping tears again, hesitating to touch her because that’s weird and creepy and he’s a complete stranger. 

She seems to get the idea, though, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes and, sniffling, starts to amble towards a hallway. “S- _ sorry,”  _ she whimpers again as she calms down, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. 

“Don’t apologise, things happen,” Feryn says, and the halfling looks all the way up at him like she’s waiting for a ‘but—’ to finish the sentence. “Are you alright?” 

“F-Fine, yes,” the halfling says, then can’t help her squeak of a sob. “Alright,  _ no,  _ n-not really, but— I will be.” She gives Feryn a watery smile. “Thanks.” 

“Course,” he replies, glancing surreptitiously towards the lobby. Amelie still hasn’t turned up, which is weird. She’s never been late before, and Feryn’s starting to get concerned (as he should be; she’s dead). “I’m Feryn, by the way.”

“Aziza Hawaa al-Tahan,” says the woman, all in a rush, “with the opera. Well, I  _ should  _ be, I guess, but I haven’t been performing much lately.”

Feryn notices her lip start to quiver again. “Sorry to hear that,” he says, then directs the conversation to lighter topics. “Are you a singer?”

Right guess. Aziza’s face lights up like a city at nighttime. (Feryn’s good with people, see, even if some of the others in his family leave bedside manner to be desired.) “Oh, yes!” she says, and he can hear something of a latent melody in her voice. “I’m very good. Some people say that that’s bragging, but I was the youngest soprano to sign on the company, and I think I’m rather allowed to be proud.”

Some of the colour has returned to her cheeks, and Feryn chuckles. “You going up?” he asks, nodding to the lift. Aziza opens her mouth to say something, then stops, going almost completely red.

“Oh, gosh, Feryn, I— I’m sorry about your shirt…?” she squeaks, patting the updo piled atop her head as though making sure it’s still there. “I mean, it’s just eyeliner, but—” Aziza wrings her hands. “I can clean it for you. With magic! Definitely with magic, I mean, I— it’s weird to clean strangers’ shirts any other way, right?”

“Aziza,” Feryn cuts her off, and she looks up up up at him. “It’s no problem. And it’s your call.” 

Aziza hums a few opening notes to a song (oh, gods, she’s a  _ bard) _ , snaps her fingers, and Prestidigitation leaves Feryn’s shirt clean again. “There.” She grins. “And no fire this time!”

The elevator dings. “Wait, what?” he says, as Aziza trots in. Despite the makeup smeared down her face, she looks very smug. “Was I in danger of being set on fire?”

“Probably not,” Aziza replies with a shrug. “But you never know.” Feryn is pretty sure that bards don’t usually set things on fire, but he doesn’t want Aziza to cry again, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Do you know how to get to l’Arc d’Ordinateur?” Aziza asks as the lift rises, and Feryn looks over to her. 

This is the moment that damns them. This is the moment that ties them together permanently. This is the moment where the story starts. This is the moment where the powers that be rubbed their hands together and realised that these guys were going somewhere, and it would be an uphill climb until the plummet. This is the moment that links them. This is the moment when Atlas crawls beneath the sky and holds it on his back, not yet aware of its weight. 

“I’m going there tomorrow,” Feryn says, because Amelie had mentioned it was important. “Want to come with?”

“Sure thing,” says Aziza. It’s the first time Feryn sees her actually smile, an impish, mischievous grin that promises trouble, and he figures it’ll be alright. He has no idea how familiar he’ll be with that smile pretty soon. 

* * *

Halfway across the continent, Brock and Wilde are no longer in the tunnels. They hit a dead end and turned around, and thought it would be best to start exploring. The thing is, though, Brock  _ knows  _ those tunnels, and he knows that there’s no dead end there. Something got in his head, and it’s Barret’s fault. It’s definitely Barret’s fault, and it’s got to do with the Sasha plot. He’s certain of it. 

Wilde doesn’t know the tunnels, but he does have a splitting headache, and that’s not a typical reaction to walking underground. Even in the dark, he can’t open his eyes for worry of the world spinning around him. 

Brock, from nearby, rambles, “Did you see that? Did you see what it was? I don’t remember, but I — well, that’s proper suspicious, ain’t it? That’s not how the tunnel ends; it keeps going — I mean, I know, I’ve been there! Somethin’ changed our memories, it did, I swear, ‘cos that’s not how the tunnels work. I  _ knew  _ Barret was up to something, I knew it.”

“... _ what?”  _ Wilde coughs, wiping his mouth from where he’s doubled over, back pressed to the wall. “Who’s Barret?”

“He’s my dad,” says Brock, like it doesn’t matter, “but that’s not the important thing. He’s the one that put Sasha in that machine, and I know you don’t work for ‘im, you’re way too fancy, so why were you down there?”

“Barret  _ Rackett?”  _ Wilde asks, and Brock sends him a withering look.

“Yeah, Barret Rackett, who else?” he says, then amends himself. “Well, I mean, you  _ do _ look like you’re a bit too posh to know him, so I guess I’ll give you that, but—”

“You’re a  _ Rackett?”  _

Brock stops talking, finally, which gives Wilde half a second to catch his breath and swallow down the nausea. “I’m Brock,” he says. “Who’s asking?” 

“Oscar Wilde.” He holds out a hand; the street rat in front of him hesitates before taking it. The man in the scarlet waistcoat doesn’t shank him, though, so Brock figures that’s something. Wilde smooths his hands on his trousers, clears his throat, and gives a practised, condescending smile. “Pleasure.”

“Alright, yeah,” says Brock, folding his arms. “Why’re you looking for Sasha?”

“Who’s Sasha?” Wilde asks, and something more instinct than memory jolts the both of them. 

Brock pauses for a long moment, then looks down, looks back up again, looks behind him for good measure. “My cousin,” he mumbles, and Wilde has to strain to hear him. “Everyone says she’s dead, but she’s not dead, I know she’s not. Sasha’s good at running and stabbing, ‘cept I haven’t seen her for six months and my dad’s not telling me where she went.” Running a hand through his already messed up hair, Brock plops down on the ground and sighs. “Got a good investigation going, at least.”

“Have you now?” asks Wilde, and even though he’s genuinely curious, Brock glares. Must be something in the peacock print; Wilde  _ always  _ gets this sort of reaction.

“Just because I’m not a posh man with bad shoes don’t mean I don’t know things,” he snaps sullenly, slipping a dagger out of his jacket pocket and tossing it in the air. “Alright? I’m gonna find Sasha, and I think that whoever’s in the tunnels changing our memories took her. An’ I don’t care what you’re up to, Mr Wilde, because you ain’t coming between me and Sasha, alright? It took too long to get this far.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Wilde says (and huh. He’s actually being sincere for once). He straightens, clicks his fingers, and doesn’t bother to straighten his tie because he already knows it’s perfect. “I think we could help each other out.”

“I’m not working for you,” Brock says immediately, and Wilde laughs. 

“No, not at all,” he agrees, holding out a hand to lift Brock from the dusty ground. 

And this is the moment that damns them. This is the moment that shunts them onto the same fated ferry, a journey down the river Styx that’ll certainly reach the Underworld and then come back up again. This is the moment that locks the doors on a one-way road trip to Hell, all expenses paid. This is the moment they sign a contract to die. 

Wilde says, “How’d you like to serve the Meritocrats?” 

Brock knows what that means. Brock knows what sort of sway that could give him. Brock knows that the posh man with the bad shoes is following the Sasha plot, and he’ll do anything to get her back before Barret kills her. (He doesn’t know that he already has.) 

“Sure thing,” says Brock, grasping Wilde by the wrist and pulling himself to standing position, looking up up up towards the swishy hair and daring eyes. “How much do I get paid?”  
  



	2. Admin, Sort Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilde makes a round trip, Brock gets appraisal overload, Aziza is a menace and Feryn does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for being a day late; however, I think that Wednesday will be our new update days. so that's fun! 
> 
> enjoy :)

It takes Wilde less than a day to get a return trip to Paris. (Of course it does. He’s not yet important enough to be kept in an office.) Brock is identified easily — he’s the spitting image of Barret, for starters — and his story checks. People have been disappearing in Paris for years. It only makes sense that it’d start to happen in London, too. 

Wilde gets the kid something to eat first, before the train. He looks half-starved despite his father’s power, which might just be the Other London of it all, and makes Wilde take a bite of the sandwich first to prove it’s not poisoned. There’s food on the train, too, but Brock takes none of it, just stares sullenly at his daggers and Wilde’s glass of red wine. 

When Wilde wakes up an hour and a half later (he’s still sleeping, mind, but don’t get used to it), Brock has pickpocketed him with no shame and is now looking owlishly down at his possessions. “That’s a letter opener,” Wilde says, cracking his other eye open and swiping it back across the table. Brock’s shoulders slump.

“I really thought you had at least one knife, Wilde,” Brock says, and does he sound… disappointed? Wilde snaps his fingers to fix his hair and sits up straighter, smiling and remembering that this kid is his responsibility now. “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll fix that for you. Got to get the right grip, y’know. Amateurs always pick the wrong grip.” 

“Let’s get a  _ handle  _ on the situation in the tunnels first,” Wilde says, glancing out the window, and Brock snorts. Oh, good. “Then we can talk about knives.”

“Aw, I do get that,” he says, pleased, then picks up Wilde’s watch as if inspecting it for blades. “You  _ do _ got to get better defences, though. Can’t just be clever at people ‘til they die, not in the type of place we’re headed. I’ve been to Paris once or twice— proper Paris, not the fancy bit— and if we’re tryna get to the tunnels there—”

“We’ll need a bit of an  _ edge?”  _ Wilde asks leadingly, and Brock grins. His teeth look sharp.

“An’ don’t forget your pleases and shank-yous,” says the thief, sliding the watch back across the fancy train table. Brock looks proud of himself, and Wilde has the pleasant feeling that they’ll get along. 

* * *

As Wilde and Brock hurtle along on their collision course (Brock takes a glass of wine for kicks, then downs it almost like a shot, much to Wilde’s horror), the rest of the party is stuck in traffic. Like, a  _ lot  _ of traffic. Like, ‘the opera is definitely not what’s causing this’ traffic. Feryn and Aziza have decided to walk to l’Arc d’Ordinateur, which is taking forever, but they’re moving faster than every single automobile they’ve seen. 

Aziza is wearing rain boots. It’s not raining, she’s just decided as a fashion choice. Feryn is a bit confused but he’s not going to question it, because she’s also wearing an electric blue fur shawl over a henley and leather trousers and  _ pulling it off.  _ Aziza had looked much more spry after a night’s sleep, arriving in the lobby bare faced, grinning, and having just pocketed a complementary pack of matches. 

Despite being a good three feet taller than her, Feryn has no trouble walking at a slow enough pace for Aziza to keep up. The streets are crowded and irritable; Aziza grabs Feryn’s wrist like a particularly huffy toddler and glares at anyone whose shin slams against her stomach. “Is there any way we can go about this faster?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“Unfortunately not.” Feryn tries to scan the crowd but it’s not like  _ he’s  _ particularly tall either. “But we’ve been going for a good while; we should be at l’Arc d’Ordinateur soon enough. Why’d you say you wanted to go there again?”

Aziza shrugs, huffing a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “I don’t, really,” she sighs. They move two steps forward. “But my show got cancelled— well,  _ I  _ got cancelled from the show, because the costume designer won’t make a dress with a higher collar and  _ apparently  _ having burns on your shoulder ‘isn’t a good look in a soprano,’ even though chicks dig scars, Feryn.” Aziza gives him a meaningful look and Feryn has no idea what the meaning is. 

“Mm-hmm?”

“My baby brother always thought it was cool, though, so I figured I’d check it out,” Aziza says wistfully. “Hamid. Well, he  _ is _ almost graduated from university, but it’s not like he’s any less my baby brother.” 

Feryn laughs, and Aziza grins up at him. “Zolf’s  _ fifty,”  _ he says, in the same way that parents talk about their children becoming teenagers, “and I still feel the exact same way. Gods, I sound old.”

“You are, a bit,” says Aziza, matter of fact, and then bursts into musical laughter when Feryn looks down at her with a combination of confusion, offence, and amusement. “What? It’s a good thing, being old, you get discounts.”

Feryn just barely resists rubbing at his temples with his free hand.  _ “Aziza,”  _ he says, already with too much fondness. They should know not to be too fond of each other. “Do you ever think before you speak?”

“I try not to,” she replies immediately, smiling with all her teeth and both mischievous eyes. “I’m a performer, Feryn. Take me off the script and I don’t know how to act.” She laughs again and the sky hears it, echoing a rumble of thunder above the city. “Get it? How to  _ act?”  _

Feryn groans audibly. Aziza laughs a bit harder, pleased as punch. “Let’s try to move a little quicker,” he says, shaking his head but unable to hide a smile. “Sounds like it’s going to rain.”

“D’you think I could cancel it out by setting it on fire?” Aziza asks as she slips through a man’s legs, and Feryn has to knock a few shoulders to squeeze after her.

_ “No,  _ and even if you could,  _ don’t,”  _ he chastises, but he’s enjoying himself, because— well. She’s a far cry from Zolf, but they’re both so goddamn stubborn, and Feryn misses his brother. “Why is your response to everything just ‘arson’?” 

“It’s not!” She darts into the road, then back onto the pavement to avoid a clump of pedestrians, and Feryn can only keep track of her by the brightness of her fur shawl. “Only when it’s useful!” 

He sighs, pushes past more people, calls after her, “Aziza! - Sorry, sir, I -  _ Aziza,  _ setting the rain on fire - ‘scuse me - setting the rain on fire is  _ not useful!”  _

* * *

Brock doesn’t trust the train. To be fair, Brock doesn’t really trust any part of the excursion, and he certainly doesn’t trust Wilde. The closest thing he has to protection here is Le Gourmand, but that guy has never liked Brock, and Brock’s falling out with Barret probably hasn’t made things any better. Gourmand is a dick, anyway, and Brock would rather die than go to him for help.

(And die he will, but it’ll be unrelated to any Paresian crime lord. He’ll get  _ better,  _ though, don’t be huffy.)

Brock is pretty sure that Wilde’s trying to poison him, between the puns and the food, but he’s not going to let it go to his head. Despite everything, he feels a bit bad for the guy, because once they get to proper Paris, Wilde is going to be  _ screwed.  _ He’s not wearing peacock print anymore, but he  _ isn’t  _ wearing anything suitable for running, and Brock knows from experience that there’s a lot of running to be done in Paris. He’s keeping his mouth shut, though, because it’s always more satisfying to say ‘I told you so’ when he hasn’t been a prick the whole time. 

Then the train stops, and Brock climbs into the largest, most ornate station he’s ever seen in his life. It’s the sort of place where Wilde looks  _ less garish  _ than some of the other passengers walking to and fro, but for once, his scale-patterned green waistcoat  _ doesn’t  _ look out of place. He downs the last of his wine (it’s quite good wine, Brock had four glasses) and smiles with the confidence of someone who doesn’t need to smooth their outfit to know it’s perfect. 

“Shall we?” Wilde asks, and Brock nods, completely mute. Wilde gestures for him to go first, and Brock makes sure his wrist sheaths are loaded. Even if Wilde tries to stab him, he won’t have the upper hand. 

“Where  _ are  _ we?” Brock hisses, peeling across the train and sticking to Wilde’s side like a burr’s shadow as he takes in the opulence.

_ “Le Gare du Nord,”  _ Wilde replies with a grin, sweeping a hand around the area. There’s so much glitz that the numbers in Brock’s head have stopped computing for sheer overload. The ceiling is  _ gold.  _ The ceiling is  _ gold  _ and manicured and has a mural of Hermes stretching across the top dome and  _ the ceiling is gold.  _ Brock feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but that really might be the shine. “Welcome to Paris.” 

* * *

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Aziza,” Feryn says as he steps into the Ordinateur’s building, where he sees the halfling completely dry and looking incredibly smug in the lobby. 

“Hey, Feryn!” She hums, points a finger at him, and is casting a spell before he can even open his mouth to scold her to not run off in a crowded city where neither of them really know where they’re going, but within the instant he’s both warm and dry, which is nice. 

“I— wh—  _ Aziza,”  _ is what he says again, which has a bit less effect considering he’s not sputtering and wet, but the sentiment is the same. “You’re— I—”

“Thank,” she says, leading him over to the reception desk as Feryn sighs.

“Don’t do that again.”

Aziza scrunches up her forehead. “It got me here quicker. And it got  _ you  _ here quicker.”

“That doesn’t mean— well, yes,” Feryn admits with a huff, but he’s already fighting back an exasperated laugh. “You can’t just pop about like a little blue beetle whenever you feel like it; I’ve got to keep an eye on you somehow.”

“Listen, old man,” Aziza says as she grabs a brochure and flips through, looking for a tour. “I just lost my job for the week, and I’ve had to be the older sibling for so long, so—” She smiles, but it’s sad. “I just need a break, Feryn.”

“I’m not  _ that old,”  _ says Feryn, smiling back, and Aziza sighs. He gets it. She knows he gets it. They have an understanding and it’s much, much too kind. They should know better. 

Aziza clears her throat and pokes a finger at the brochure. “There’s a tour in fifteen minutes. Are we signing up?”

Feryn shrugs. Aziza takes him by the wrist like a toddler again and pulls him towards the line, which is fairly short. People are beginning to spill into the lobby, now, bleeding from the rainy streets and clotting the door. Aziza and Feryn reach the front of the line, and Feryn pauses after they’ve put their names down. “Hey,” he says to the receptionist, putting a hand on the table. Amelie told him to come to this place if anything went wrong, and the fact that she’d never shown last night qualifies. “This is a bit odd, but I think a friend of mine left something here recently.”

The receptionist doesn’t have any response to Feryn’s ring, which means that the Harlequin connection is useless. She frowns at Feryn, mostly bored, and asks, “What’s her name? We get a lot of lost items.”

“Amelie,” he says, and Aziza’s giving him a bit of a look. “Amelie Rose; she was here a few weeks ago for an interview.” 

The frown deepens. Feryn hopes this is a good thing. “Actually,” she says, reaching under the desk, “we’ve got a bit of a package with her name on it. What’s your—”

“Madeline,” interrupts another, taller employee, smoothly sliding the package out of the gnomish woman’s hands and passing it to Feryn, “I know this man. Amelie left it here for him.”

A flash of silver by her leg catches Feryn’s hand and he meets her eyes. A Club. A contact. He doesn’t have time to ask what happened, just accepts the box and tucks it under his arm. “Thank you,” he says, and Aziza pulls him away. 

“What was that about?”

Feryn looks down at the box, with Amelie’s name scribbled at the top in her jolting, efficient script, and sets his jaw. “Friend of mine died, I think,” he murmurs, and it takes an effort to keep his breathing steady. “Dead man’s drop. Must’ve been recent, too, she sent me a letter a month ago.” 

“Oh,” Aziza whispers, and hugs him.

* * *

Here’s the thing: Wilde speaks French. Brock speaks actual French, which is trash French. Brock  _ very much  _ did not expect to be in this fancy-ass hotel where he doesn’t belong, and where no one is speaking actual French. And everyone is also convinced that the bad shoes Wilde is wearing are good shoes, because they’re also wearing those shoes. Brock is uncomfortable. Deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Almost uncomfortable enough to take mechanical penalties, because this hotel is objectively too posh.

The only person who looks like he doesn’t belong is a short man with a package, chatting quietly to a very attractive halfling. Brock keeps an eye on him, still sticking close to Wilde as he checks them in. Wilde is in his element completely, talking and charming and making way too many puns for Brock to keep up with, and he wants to fall into a pit and die (which he will, just in case anyone forgot). 

Wilde is so busy being social that he doesn’t see what Brock sees. He doesn’t hear what Brock hears. He doesn’t catch the man with the box say, “We’ll have to get to the catacombs.” 

Brock knows about that something’s in the tunnels under London. He’s going to need to find what’s in the tunnels under Paris. “Wilde,” he says under his breath, knives already prepped, “we’re going to need to follow them.” 

Wilde scrawls a signature on the receipt so quickly that Brock barely has time to blink (impressive, really, he has great reflexes) and says, “Do not stab anyone.” 

“I— hey,” Brock says, folding his arms. “I wasn’t gonna. I said  _ follow  _ them. That man’s not posh enough to be here, and he’s going to the catacombs, so I say we follow them.” 

“I could always say hello,” Wilde says, following Brock’s gaze and pausing for a moment, a thoughtful frown settling across his face. The man is short, stocky, with dark, wavy hair, freckles, and a strong jaw beneath the beard.  _ Handsome,  _ Wilde thinks, but that’s not what matters. “No need to trail them; a conversation is always a perfectly reasonable option—”

“I just stole his room key,” Brock says from Wilde’s  _ other  _ shoulder, and holds it in the air. “Cool?”

_ “Or  _ we could go for some light espionage,” Wilde finishes with a sigh. “Not too  _ key-n _ on it, but it’ll do.” 

“Yes it will,” says Brock, proudly, because things are finally being done the right way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, hmu on twitter @mostlyzoe, on tumblr @thoughsbubble, or somewhere on the rqdbfc. I will probably be committing Crimes. thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!


	3. Hi, My Name Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feryn is grumpy, Aziza acts before she thinks, Brock is persuasive, and Wilde is... Wilde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter one, but certainly an important one! it only took me 5k words to get the party in the same place. :D enjoy :)

The door to Feryn’s rooms is ajar, and he has his hand on the hilt of a shortsword before he even registers what he’s done. “Fuck,” Aziza whispers from behind his thigh, already sounding musical. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck!”  _

“Aziza—” Feryn starts warningly, but it’s too late. 

_ “Fuck you!”  _ Aziza cries in what is, oddly enough, a beautifully operatic soprano, and casts Spark on what looks like a notepad. It’s the first thing she can see through the door, and as she enters Feryn’s room she can also see the person  _ holding  _ the notepad, who is both uncomfortably gorgeous for — reasons, and wearing an outfit that should look ridiculous but doesn’t (see aforementioned attractiveness; this is  _ just how it is).  _

“Ow,” says the man flatly, crossing his ankles. “Aziza, then?” He nods at a figure in the shadows, and she has a knife to her throat. 

Feryn has already entered the room at this point, weapon drawn, looking more intimidating than Aziza has ever seen him. (Maybe it’s the cross between that recent grief and protective sibling instinct or something. Who’s to say.) “What the  _ hell  _ is going on here?” he snaps, and the man in the fancy suit looks him up and down. “Aziza, are you—”

“Swords drawn already?” asks the man in Feryn’s chair, a languid smirk on his lips. “Always a good way to start an encounter.” 

_ “What— _ I— no. You know what,” Feryn says, still focused on the boy with a dagger at Aziza’s neck, “I’m not even going to touch that. Who the hell are you, and  _ what _ do you want?” 

“What  _ can  _ I interest you in touching, then?” says the man, dusting the burnt first page off his notepad. “I was hoping to interview your friend here about her singing, but considering that this  _ is  _ your room—”

“I could kill you,” Feryn cuts him off. “I’m holding a  _ sword.  _ Not an innuendo, not a metaphor, a fucking  _ sword.  _ Why is it that everyone I’ve met in the past two days doesn’t know when to stop?” 

“Hey,” says Aziza, trying her best to frown up at him. 

“Also, ew,” says the boy with the knife at the same time, pulling a face. “Really?” 

“Just staying  _ sharp,”  _ says the man with a knowing smile, and this situation is so strange the Feryn’s not sure  _ what  _ he should do with his weapon. Aziza groans and casts Spark again. “Ow!” 

“Who are you?” Feryn repeats, with more force, and the man smiles at him like a cat. 

“Oscar Wilde.” He holds out a hand that Feryn doesn’t take but doesn’t seem bothered, flicking more ash off the top of his notebook. “I’d hoped to make a bit less... noise when I met the two of you, but I suppose this will do.” 

“And what the fuck do you want?” Feryn asks, near a growl. “And don’t— don’t—”

“Flirt with you?” Aziza asks helpfully from the floor. 

“Yes! That.  _ Thank you,  _ Aziza,” Feryn says, because this situation is too goddamn weird for him to put things into words. He points to a still-smirking Wilde with the sword tip. “You. Talk.” 

But it’s Brock who answers, pulling away from Aziza like a shadow fleeing dawn. “You’re looking for the catacombs,” he says, appearing at Feryn’s back. “You’ve got that box. And you don’t belong here.” 

Feryn’s shoulders tighten. “I’m a patron at this hotel,” he says stiffly, still glaring at Wilde. “And you broke into my room because I’m looking for the  _ catacombs?”  _

“Listen, mate,” Brock says, and he might be a scrawny kid with a mop of messy black hair but he’s got five inches on Feryn, “no one goes down to the catacombs ‘scept construction workers, and construction workers don’t stay in hotels like these. I dunno who you work for, but I’ve  _ got  _ to find what’s down there, alright? It took my cousin, and it took a lot of other people, and it took my memories - well, his too—” He points to Wilde. “—but that’s not really the point, see, I  _ know  _ that no one here’s just looking for the catacombs. You’re not just looking for the catacombs because it’s more than just dirt in the tunnels in London, and it’s more than just bone beneath this place too.”

And, for better or for worse, Feryn’s gut says that the kid is telling the truth. 

It was luck, really, that Brock was the one who opened his mouth, that it was the scrappy kid with a mission and something to prove, because Feryn sees the makings of a Harlequin. Wilde’s not wearing a ring, which is a Diamond move, the high society bastards working to take down the system that’s brought them to where they are, but  _ Brock.  _ Brock smells Harlequin all over, like righteousness, like determination, like hope, like failure, like redemption, like the desire to take the world and make it better.

It’s luck, really, that Brock’s the one who makes the appeal, because the room falls silent. The room falls silent and someone, somewhere, is struck with the realisation that these four people are all in the same place. Someone, somewhere, is struck by the notion that as Feryn lowers his blade and Aziza clambers to her feet, there’s a truce. Someone, somewhere is struck silent when Feryn says, “You’re following the disappearances, then,” because this is the olive branch. This is the treaty. Someone, somewhere, has struck a gong, a ringing sound that echoes beneath the world, a threshold that has finally been crossed. 

“Here and in London,” says Wilde, and he’s more somber now.

“Cairo, too,” Aziza pipes up suddenly, rubbing at her neck. “There was a story big enough to make the news last month.”

“But it started  _ here,”  _ says Feryn, tucking the shortsword back into its hilt. “And it’s getting worse.”

“You’ve got to help me find Sasha,” Brock says, and he’s so desperate. Feryn looks to Aziza looks to Brock looks to Wilde. 

Feryn huffs, kicks Wilde out of his chair, sits down. It’s not like he was going to say no, anyway, not when their goals align and family means everything. “Fine.” 

“I’m Brock,” says Brock, tucking his knife into somewhere impossible. 

Feryn sticks out a hand (Wilde, now lounging on a counter, makes a noise of disapproval) and Brock shakes. “Feryn. And you already know Aziza, I guess.”

“Good to meet you,” Aziza says, looking at Brock with something like respect. “Let’s not go missing.” 

“Very much agreed,” Wilde chimes in. 

Without missing a beat, Aziza says, “You don’t get an opinion, wearing that.”

“I  _ beg your pardon?”  _

“Aziza,” Feryn scolds her, but he’s laughing, and Wilde gives him an overdramatic dirty look. 

“I mean,” Brock mumbles under his breath, “she’s not wrong.” 

And afterwards Wilde cries, “Brock!” and Brock bursts into laughter,  _ real  _ laughter, and Aziza feels smug about being funny and afterwards Feryn tells off Brock in a surprisingly gentle way about stealing people’s room keys, and afterwards Aziza slips off her sleeves, puts them back on again and her outfit switches into a tiny replica of Wilde’s, but the silver-green snakeskin waistcoat  _ definitely  _ looks better on hers, and afterwards they start to have conversations like people.

(Don’t get comfortable. They will, sure, but you shouldn’t.)

Pay attention up ahead, because the story has kicked off. This is it. The prologue is done. For better or for worse, these four are bound to each other, and they’re bound to something beyond themselves. They’ve been pushed along a winding track with tunnels up ahead, and they can’t predict what’ll come next. 

Certainly it’ll be fine. This will have no ramifications  _ whatsoever.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for plot purposes, this is officially the end of the prologue! "season one" starts here :) comments and kudos are dearly appreciated as always, and I can be found on twitter @mostlyzoe, on tumblr @thoughtsbubble, or on the rqdbfc if you'd like to hmu to talk rusty quill. thank you for reading!!


	4. Let's Get Down To Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feryn herds some cats, Wilde is efficient, Brock enters rogue space, and Aziza has no impulse control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lateness! not much to say here except enjoy :)

The traffic has lessened slightly the next morning, so the party  _ (finally)  _ meets in Feryn’s room at an hour much too early for Aziza, and a little bit too early for everyone else. Wilde is holding a coffee and Brock may have just stuffed three complementary sandwiches into his bag, but he did it so quickly that Feryn isn’t sure. 

Aziza isn’t wearing clothes this morning so much as a cloud and combat boots, swathed in a dress so fluffy and white that Brock stares in an attempt to appraise it. The shoes are black, bulky, and laced to the ankle as Aziza bends to re-tie them with shimmering green-gloved hands. Wilde is wearing a linen blazer in a colour that Aziza would call ‘salmon’ and everyone else would call ‘weird pink’ over a grey silk button down and dark blue tie patterned with winking white stars. Feryn isn’t sure how any of these outfits are working, and he doesn’t want to. _ (Bards.) _

“Alright,” says Feryn, clearing his throat as the others dutifully gather around. “We’re heading to Notre Dame today to scout out the place; tomorrow’s catacombs. We shouldn’t expect the Apollo lot to let us in, and none of us have religious clearance. It’ll probably end up with some light breaking and entering, unless anyone has another plan.” Aziza opens her mouth. “Arson is not allowed.” Aziza closes her mouth. 

“Not even a little explosion?” Brock asks mournfully, and Aziza grins.

“Not even a little one,” Wilde sighs, and Brock huffs. “Unfortunately.”

“Are we clear?” Feryn asks, eyes scanning his new team one at a time. Aziza looks to Brock looks to Wilde. “Tell me if you’ve got questions; we’re taking a carriage and I’d rather talk in here.”

Brock pats his chest, counts on his fingers, and nods. “We’re clear.” 

“Crystal,” says Wilde, sliding off the arm of the sofa. 

“Aye aye, Captain,” Aziza chimes in with a mock salute, and Feryn resists every urge to ruffle her braid crown. 

“Nah, that’s my brother,” he says, something of a proud smile on his face, and Aziza punches him in the leg. “Let’s move out.” 

* * *

The carriage ride is uneventful, if a bit bumpy, considering that the Paresian streets have unclogged. The sidewalk around Notre Dame is especially empty — empty enough to be noticeable, in that the massive crowds are severely diminished — and Feryn thanks the carriage driver as he pays. Wilde, over his shoulder, leaves a tip and a wink.  _ Diamonds,  _ Feryn thinks, and rolls his eyes _. _

Walking  _ to  _ Notre Dame is easy. Getting inside, despite the emptiness, is surprisingly hard. A bright paladin offers to give them a walking tour of the outdoors but Feryn shuts that down, surveying the area and trying to come up with an excuse. “Is there an issue inside?” Wilde asks from behind him, looking the paladin briefly down and back up again. 

It might be a Wilde thing. It might be an Apollo thing. Feryn isn’t sure, but whatever it was, it works. “Well, um— we were told it was construction, but I don’t know,” the man admits, his cheeks a bit pink. 

“Can I speak to someone about accessing the temple?” Wilde asks, and smiles like  _ that,  _ reaching into his blazer pocket to pull out a business card. “I’m a journalist. I sent a letter a few months ago about doing a piece on the place for international readers.” 

“Oh!” The paladin takes the card, clears his throat. There’s an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks as he looks it over. “Well, I— I suppose I’ll try to find someone. The construction is in the greenhouse, see, but they’ve closed down the temple indoors too—” He shuts his mouth, belatedly, remembering an order given  _ not  _ to talk about the greenhouse. “I’ll try to find someone.”

“Of course,” says Wilde smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t want to lose _ daylight.” _

The paladin sort of turns to go, realises that a pun has been made, stops. Turns back, tries to figure out what the pun is, can’t. Stops again. Turns  _ back  _ around. Walks into the greenhouse. Wilde grins.

“You’re an asshole,” Feryn mutters from his shoulder, respectfully.

_ “You’re  _ very welcome,” says Wilde. “Couldn’t have done it without my sunny disposition.” 

“Wilde, I am going to stab you,” Brock remarks, accompanied by the distinct sound of wrist sheaths loading, as he heads towards the greenhouse. “I dunno when yet, but I will.”

* * *

Cut to: the inside of an office, featuring a very stressed out paladin at whom Dr Colgate is glaring  _ daggers,  _ and a nervous looking woman from administrative staff, the last of whom has just revealed that Dr Mendel has disappeared. He’s disappeared into the storage rooms of the gardens along with, apparently,  _ two other employees,  _ and the staff of the Jardin des Plantes has just now decided to shut down public access. Feryn looks murderous. Aziza looks mildly intrigued. 

“It’s just—” says the lady from admin, wringing her hands, “this situation isn’t likely to resolve itself anytime soon, so—”

“We’ve got it,” says Feryn impatiently, taking stock of the group ahead of him. Aziza can do magic. Feryn himself is a damn good fighter, and he’s pretty sure the boy has a few knives up his sleeve. Wilde had better be a magic user, because Feryn isn’t hauling his ass out of the basement when it turns out he’s just a prick in loafers. They can take whatever the dungeons have to throw at them. 

Aziza whacks Feryn’s knee. “We  _ do?”  _

He looks down at her. She slashes a hand across her throat and says, “Danger! Dead people! Disappearan— actually, you know what? That doesn’t sound like a bad time; let’s go.” She turns back to the scientist whose name she has forgotten already and announces, “We’ve got it.”

“Cool,” says Brock, already out the door. Wilde has had time to get used to this; Feryn and Aziza have not, and it takes the two of them a few extra seconds to process what’s just happened. 

“Woah!” cries the admin woman, and Brock pauses. “I mean, you’re — you’re a  _ journalist,  _ aren’t you, Mr Wilde?” Feryn looks down, sees a very familiar ring.  _ Club.  _ It checks; Paris is Club territory, and religious hubs are Harlequin hotspots. Surprisingly enough, those who worship Ancient Rome’s gods are a bit less likely to trust the dragons that trashed the place. 

Wilde turns around, brow raised, already preparing to do some stupid posh Diamond shit, obviously, because  _ clearly  _ he’s clocked the ring, but Feryn waves him away. No one remembers Diamond clearance codes for the ringless, anyway, because they’re wicked complicated.  _ “He’s  _ a journalist,” Feryn says, flashing his ring. “We’re mercenaries. Uh, Hirald and Sons.”

“It’s a family name,” Aziza pipes up winningly, and smiles. The Club glances down, then back up, and clears his throat. 

A smile touches Wilde’s lips. He’s assumed for quite a while that Feryn was part of a European Meritocratic mercenary group, but to almost confirm the words aloud… well. Mercenaries are techty, their contracts flighty, and Wilde knows not to say anything. Besides, he’s heard the name Hirald before, and he’s pretty sure it means something in the city. Either way, Feryn has it handled, which is helpful. 

“Alright, well,” the admin lady says, smoothing down her outfit. “Follow me, I guess.” 

Brock pops his head back in the room, says, “The door to the basement is this way,” and trots back out. Feryn gives the Club a nice pat on the shoulder and follows Brock. 

They’ve been given the rundown about the disappearances, the screaming, the plants that  _ might  _ be killing people - which is a shit way to die, Feryn figures - and the scientist who went down to fix his own mistakes. They’ve been given the rundown about where the storage basement meets the tunnels, and Feryn is very keen to break in again once this situation has been sorted. They’ve been given the rundown and promised some sort of reward when they’re finished, which perked Brock right up. Aziza is humming as the party of four make their way down the stairs, already preparing for magic.

The rooms are empty. It’s a bit spooky, sure, but in the way that all basements are spooky. It’s not  _ concerning  _ until they come across the empty boxes, the chewed-through vents. “Is this a bit fucked to anyone else?” Aziza asks, nudging one of the boxes, and that’s when the chittering starts. 

“Aziza,” Feryn says with a sigh, reaching into his Bag of Holding (what, Harlequins stock well) and pulling out a broadsword, “I think we’re all a bit fucked.” 

“Gladly,” says Wilde under his breath, and Brock pokes him with a knife. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaas always, come hmu on tumblr @thoughtsbubble, on twitter @mostlyzoe, or shoot me a message on discord! I am always down to talk rusty quill and forbidden au!


	5. Bit of a Homebrew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brock knows Morse code, Aziza harmonises, Wilde gets knocked out, and Feryn receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to me making fun of pathfinder!! I love this chapter. enjoy. :)

Time slows down. Time slows down as swarms and swarms (it _is_ only two swarms) of tiny humanoids pour out of the rafters, out of the walls, out of the torn up vents. Time slows down, and everything seems to be happening in six second increments, or something weird like that. Time slows down and Feryn _wishes_ he had something other than his sword, because it’s not going to be much good against these creatures. Time slows down and Feryn looks to Brock looks to Aziza looks to Wilde. 

Time slows down and they’re all overwhelmed. 

Six seconds later _(exactly,_ what do you know?), Feryn is the only member of the party not scrambling into a corner to vomit. He’s not let off the hook, though, revolted, taking a mostly ineffectual swing and stumbling back. The swarm shrieks, more out of surprise than fear, but hey. At least Feryn has taken initiative. 

Aziza recovers first, spitting and clearing her throat and already launching into song, Magic Missile shooting from her raised middle finger and slamming into the swarm, throwing it off-kilter and giving Feryn time to ready his weapon. Wilde, meanwhile, mutters a few words under his breath and then is surrounded with the illusion of something not himself, something whirling and twisting and other, and — well, basically, he’s made himself look spooky. And he’s done well, but that’s about it. An illusion. 

(Peak behind the curtain — see, these bastards are at about Level 2 right now, which means they’re absolute _rubbish,_ and you should absolutely be worried for their well-being. Good luck running on cantrips, guys.)

At this point Brock has recovered sufficiently, reaching into his pack and picking out two random reagents because there’s really no way this can get worse, right? For plot purposes, they’re the right reagents, and the bomb splashes across the wailing swarm: direct hit. Nice one, Brock.

“Nice one, Brock!” Aziza shouts across the chaos as Feryn chucks his sword back in the Bag of Holding, knowing damn well that it’s not going to do any good and scanning for an exit. He finds one towards the back as Aziza starts singing again, snatching up a wide plank of wood to smack away the mandrakes. More surface area, he figures. 

Wilde’s mumbling has turned into something that’s definitely a song, but instead of clashing with Aziza, it _harmonises._ Aziza’s voice soars and her vibrato fills the room, rich and powerful and sweeping, and then Wilde, beneath her, a clear and bright tenor with the jaunt of youth and pride, and they meld like the creation of a new colour. 

The air stops. The air _stops._ The air stops and yearns for them, and it hums with electricity uncensored, and oh, there’s a split second of angels in the afterlight.

The air stops, and then there’s _fire._ See, Wilde cast Chord of Shards, which is literally the only thing he can do in this situation, and Aziza’s been working towards another Magic Missile, but what happens here is something more. The chord resonates, and a rain of knife-sharp crystals appear in the air, but they’re on _fire._ They’re tiny and sparkling and brilliant and flaming, and they pierce the swarm directly in front of Brock before the little guy has any time to prepare another bomb. 

Between the explosion and whatever the hell this was, that first swarm is looking pretty damaged and the last few mandrakes scurry into the walls, screeching. “C’mon!” Feryn yells, slamming the door open before the rest of the party has even taken a proper breath. “C’mon, let’s _go!_ Brock, with me, we can try to take the rest of them—”

“I’ve got it!” says Brock, grinning, picking out two more reagents (he knows them, this time) and springing across the room towards Feryn. Wilde and Aziza are still a bit stunned but run through the door at Feryn’s prompting. None of them have checked to see what’s on the other side, but surely it’ll be fine. 

“No, there’s another way into the room—” Feryn starts, but it’s too late. 

“Aziza, light it up!” Brock hollers, rolling the bomb across the floor; she whoops and casts Spark from her place behind Wilde’s leg. A small explosion shakes the ground, sends a few bodies flying, but the mandrakes don’t do anything but swarm closer, faster.

 _“Fuck,”_ says Feryn, with feeling, before grabbing Brock by the scruff of his leather jacket and dragging him through the door, then slamming it shut. “What the hell’re you thinking?” 

“It’s worked before,” Brock says defensively, batting at Feryn’s hand, and the door shakes. The four of them retreat on instinct; Wilde, already in the back, stumbles on something cold. Feryn is readying his sword to smash the lock on the door, and Wilde has turned to discover a body swathed in bright purple mould. 

Dead people. Disappearances. Wilde is a smart man; he can make connections. He takes a few step forwards into the chill, and the world goes black. 

Meanwhile, the door is mostly secure, which means that the squabbling between the _other_ three party members can finally die down. Feryn looks to Aziza looks to Brock looks to — “Fuck!” he says again. “Where’s Wilde?” 

Brock, who notices things, points. Feryn turns around to look and groans, swearing in a way that is a bit less family friendly than he’s been doing already. “Aw, he’s an idiot,” says Aziza fondly, feeling proud of herself for not being in that situation. Stupid squishy bards. 

And because it was bound to happen at some point or another, there’s an aching moan from behind one of the _other_ doors, a shambling, sloughing groan, and Aziza rubs her hands together. “You got another bomb, Brock?” she asks, and Brock looks to her. There’s a bit of a spark in both of their eyes, if you’ll pardon the turn of phrase.

“Can you light it properly this time?” he asks, and she beams at him. Brock takes that as a yes and glides noiselessly across the floor, mixing his reagents as he goes. “Feryn, open on three.”

“This is a bad idea,” Feryn warns, gripping his sword with two hands. Brock fixes him with a meaningful look, and he sighs. _“Fine.”_

“One,” says Brock, as Aziza hums a warm-up. “Two.” Feryn grasps the handle. “Three!”

It’s a fucking zombie, because of course it is. Brock tosses the bomb; Aziza thrusts out a dramatic hand, and Spark lights that baby up. The hit is square and the whole chest explodes and it lunges forward _right_ onto Feryn’s sword. He slashes through and the body crumples and — “Oh, fuck, swarm!” cries Aziza, and slams the door shut again. “We’re going to need a different way out.”

“I can make a flamethrower if you help,” says Brock, and Aziza looks at him like Christmas has come early. “‘S not that hard, really, and you’ve got all the magic, so I think we’ll be alright.” 

“No arson,” says Feryn, almost second nature, and Aziza and Brock groan at him. 

“Let’s totally do that,” she whispers, and Brock leans down to shake her hand. Feryn has his back turned; he’s approaching the section of cold and a knocked out Wilde. Almost on cue, though, comes the tapping from the pipe, and Brock recognises the SOS. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, leaning down. “Wait, this is—”

“That’s an SOS!” says Aziza, because she’s been taught basic survival tactics by her parents. 

Brock glances at her, a bit impressed. “You know Morse?”

“That’s… an SOS,” Aziza repeats, and Brock rolls his eyes as she gives him a broad smile. It’s no matter, though, he knows it fine. 

_Who are you?_ Brock taps, though he might’ve mucked up the last letter for a stunning ‘Who are yod?’ 

_Mendel please come quick glass cage,_ is the answer, and Brock frowns at the tube like it has personally offended him. “It’s Mendel,” he says, and Aziza squints thoughtfully.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I mean, maybe,” Brock says as the message taps through again. “It’s who we’re looking for, at least.” 

“Oh!” Aziza grins, yells, “hey Feryn! We found Mendel!” 

Brock dutifully taps out a reply _(following pipes will be here soon)_ and Feryn looks up from where he has his sword point stuck in Wilde’s trouser leg. “What?”

“He’s tapping through the pipes,” Brock supplies, and Feryn drags Wilde’s unconscious body out from the freezing rift. “I’d say go this way. There will definitely be danger.” 

“Alright, uh— does anyone have a healing potion?” Feryn asks, looking way too done to deal with this as he grabs Wilde’s ankle and yanks him the rest of the way. Aziza rummages around her bag and tosses a Cure Light Wounds in his direction, which Feryn barely catches. 

“Nice throw,” Brock whispers.

“Thanks.”

The healing potion does nothing. Wilde’s head lolls and Feryn curses under his breath, eventually just picking Wilde up and staggering over to Aziza and Brock. “Alright, what’s going on?” 

But they cannot have a nice day, of course, because the second chittering swarm has broken through the smallest door and pours across the floor. “Bomb!” Aziza yells, already holding out her hands for another Spark. “C’mon, Brock, I’ve got it—”

“I’m _out!”_ Brock cries in a panic, and suddenly they’re both hiding behind Feryn, holding a Wilde. Funny how things get when a group’s arsonists can’t commit arson. “I don’t have any left! Just — some acid, but that’s useless!” 

“Oh, for _gods sakes_ — _”_ Feryn manages before the swarm overtakes them all, scratching, chattering, biting. This time he’s barely able to swallow down the urge to gag, wrenching away and falling to his knees and - ah, fuck, he dropped Wilde. It happens, and honestly it’s not the thing Feryn’s most worried about.

What he’s most worried about is that Aziza’s down _(stupid squishy bards!)_ and Brock is wielding four knives instead of a bomb, and Feryn has a fucking sword. Against a swarm. “Brock,” he says, making eye contact with the now-pale and shaking rogue, “You’ve got to listen to me, alright? You’ve got a bit of acid. You’ve got a bit of acid and a knife, and I need you to throw it, alright? Give me time. I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

 _Zolf, you’ve got to trust me, alright? You have to stay still. I’ve got this. I’ve got you_ —

“Brock, _come on,”_ Feryn urges, and Brock reaches into his sack. “That’s it. _That’s it._ We’re going to be fine. We’re gonna be fine, alright, just—”

Brock tosses the acid right before the swarm hits him, and Feryn just wails on it as the mass starts to scream. Swords were not meant for fighting something like this, and neither were knives, but it’s all they’ve got. Brock practically runs up the wall as he slashes, darting in and out of reach as the swarm surges to and fro. It’s a bad fight. It’s an unfair fight and the swarm deals more damage than it takes but eventually it dwindles, little mandrake corpses littering the floor. Feryn looks to Brock looks to the ground. 

“Ew,” Brock grumbles, wiping his mouth, and no matter how rough he appears right now, Feryn knows he’s going to be alright. 

“Do we have healing potions?” Feryn repeats, breathing heavily, and Brock points to Aziza’s bag. 

“Should be.” 

Getting the other half of the party conscious isn’t easy, but it happens. It takes all of Aziza’s potions and one of Brock’s, though he was reluctant to admit he was carrying any. Wilde wakes with a cry for the first time in this campaign, and Aziza blinks owlishly as she comes to. There’s a persistent patch of frostbite on Wilde’s ankle, and Aziza’s arm is sliced with tiny scratches. They’re both a bit worse for the wear, and Aziza walks a bit closer to Feryn as they follow the Morse Code messages. Wilde just looks tired, but he casts Prestidigitation, and that disappears.

“This must be the glass cage,” Brock says as they enter a new room filled with fogged-up boxes, frowning. “Thought I interpreted that wrong.” 

“You speak Morse Code?” says Feryn, raising a brow. “That’s... surprisingly useful.”

“Good skill down under,” Brock replies with a shrug. “Messages and stuff. Tried to teach Sasha, but she was always more sign language than Morse. Visual learner or something. Makes sense, considering— you know. Uh. Nevermind.” 

Feryn looks at him. “Sure.” 

Brock awkwardly looks away and shuffles towards the glass cages on one side of the room, tapping them as the fog parts to reveal lizards and frogs and other reptilian creatures, some that can be identified and some that definitely _can’t._ It’s only a matter of time before he tracks down the pipe that leads to Mendel’s cage, and Brock pounds on the glass. “Hey!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Aziza hisses, her head snapping over. 

“I’m getting us out of here!” Brock snaps as Mendel’s frantic face lunges forwards, breaking through the smoke. He’s speaking, and Brock would try to read his lips if he was any better at that. 

(Sasha always was. Visual learner and all that. Good trait for a thief.) 

There’s a sizeable rock keeping Mendel trapped inside the cage, but the scientist slashes a hand across his throat when Brock reaches down to dislodge it. He’s pointing and mining things that Brock can’t quite make out when suddenly Wilde is at his shoulder, looking pristine and intrigued. “He’s saying not to,” Wilde tells Brock, who stops. “Don’t move the rock; there’s something in here with us.” 

“There’s _what?”_ Brock huffs, straightening, and already very annoyed. He’s lost more than half his hit points and has had to give Aziza one of his potions. 

“There’s something in here with us!” Aziza repeats from behind them, her voice rising in pitch as she scurries back, because Feryn has just gone very, very still and there’s a yellow powder in his hair. “C’mon, Feryn, what the _hell_ is—” 

There’s a rattling crash as a tentacle slams into one of the glass cages, and then — frogs. Frogs are everywhere. Frogs are fucking _everywhere._ There is a tentacle, and there are frogs. 

“Fuck,” Brock mutters emphatically, because the world around him has turned into a musical threatre performance yet again. But Brock notices things, and Brock notices that the frog-covered tentacle monster is lurching towards Feryn’s still body, and he sighs. “Why do I have to do everything myself?”

The dagger hits, and even though it doesn’t do much damage, it’s enough to keep Feryn out of the creature’s reach. Aziza flips it off spectacularly and casts another Magic Missile, though she looks more ragged than furious, and Wilde retreats before trying to cast again. Aziza sees him go and then follows, because the both of them have been knocked out enough for today. 

Brock, who is properly pissed off about the fact that he wasted all his bombs, readies another of his daggers and sends it flying. It _misses,_ and behind him Wilde is already casting Chord of Shards. Brock would be grateful if he weren’t so annoyed, and —“Feryn!” Aziza yells as she shoves out her last Magic Missile of the day. “Feryn, what’s wrong with you?” 

“He’s been poisoned or something!” Brock shouts back, wiping off his new dagger. “Wilde, you and Aziza need to do that— that thing again!” 

The bard shakes his head and raises his hands, somehow seeming smug in the midst of mortal danger. “I’m all out.” 

“So am I,” Aziza peeps, wiping her hands. 

“Fucking hell,” Brock grumbles, and lunges forward with another dagger. “C’mon, then, get a weapon! Get out a sword! Jeez— are you telling me you people don’t travel with swords?” 

“ _Holy—_ ” Feryn’s up, coming to with a gasp and shaking off whatever next effect the creature tries to throw at him. The frogs and the smoke are mostly dissipating now to reveal the plant bolus beneath, tentacled and disgusting and partially created by a decaying human corpse. Feryn’s swing hits hard, chopping off a full tentacle, and he scrambles backwards to rejoin Brock. “What the hell is going on?”

“They’re out of fucking spells!” Brock pants, reaching into his jacket pocket and throwing yet another knife. Aziza casts an ineffectual Daze (cantrips, ladies and gentlemen) while Wilde has produced a barely used shortsword. “Also! Plant monster!”

Feryn looks up as it takes a swing at him, barely missing his arm. “Yeah, I got that, thanks!” WIth a satisfying crunch, he buries his sword into the belly of the beast as Brock takes a dagger in each hand and slices up the tentacles. It’s all plant, all organism, all growth, and it’s absolutely disgusting. 

The fight stretches for a few rounds longer but it’s not like they do anything except destroy it, methodically, painfully, achingly. Brock’s limping by the end, one leg of his trousers completely torn by razor-sharp plant. He glares at it as he retrieves all the daggers he threw into the hide, which is actually pretty fair. 

Aziza looks to Brock looks to Feryn looks to Wilde. “We all alive?” Feryn asks, and they nod, one at a time, because speaking is much too hard.

Mendel taps on the glass, and the four exhausted mercenaries turn to look at him. “Oh, _you,”_ says Brock flatly, hobbling to the cage with more resentment than should perhaps be possible in that slight frame. “Thanks for the warning, by the way. Great job.” 

Mendel smiles. Brock glowers. Aziza and Feryn are just about ready for a nap. Wilde, somehow, _still_ looks smug. 

“I’m hungry,” Aziza says absently. “Would _kill_ for a salad, y’know? Some vegetables.”

Groans all around. 

* * *

The conversation with Mendel sucks. No one really cares about why or how everything got loose in the basement, they just care about the entrance to the catacombs, which made Mendel flighty and Feryn a bit more keen. It’s a small door towards the back of the weird room of glass tanks, and Feryn takes care to memorise the way. 

They got some money. Wilde handled the press. There’s a weird seed in their ‘be-quiet’ bribe bag, and they’re all too exhausted to deal with it as they take a carriage back to their lodgings. 

Feryn is tired. Properly tired. He wants to collapse in the hotel room for twelve to fifteen hours, and he certainly doesn’t expect the secretary to stop him and say, “Excuse me, sir?” 

“Mm?” says Feryn, because fighting all day takes a lot out of a guy. Who knew. 

“A letter came for you this morning,” the secretary says, and now Feryn’s interest is piqued. To be fair, though, it’s either orders from on high or a death threat, and neither of those are anything but another Tuesday night. 

“Right,” he says, trudging over and accepting it, trying for a smile that doesn’t quite make it past the exhaustion. “Thanks.” 

“Anything good?” asks Wilde as Feryn rejoins them by the lift, pressing the button with a single slender finger. (There _are_ lightning elementals. Electricity exists, remember. Also, fuck you.) 

Feryn hasn’t even looked at it yet. “Birthday party invitation,” he deadpans, and Wilde snorts. 

Aziza, from Brock’s shoulders, yawns. “Just make sure it’s not a birthday party where we need to kill people,” she says sleepily. “Or — make sure it’s not soon, Feryn; don’t get me wrong, I’m still happy to light a few bombs or so.”

“Please don’t,” says Feryn, at the same time as Brock mutters, “Yeah, that was well good, Aziza. ‘Preciated that, didn’t really know you could light things on fire with your voice.”

“I should teach you,” Aziza murmurs, and rests her head on his mop of ratty black hair. Brock pats her knee. The elevator dings. Feryn looks down and recognises the handwriting on the letter.

It’s his brother’s. 

One elevator ride later, Feryn legs it down the hall, shuts the door to the room, locks it, sits down, then gets up and makes sure it’s locked again. Zolf barely has time to write, which means something is important. Feryn writes as often as possible, so his baby brother turned cleric won’t forget the scribble of his pen. It’s a stupid thought, that Zolf would forget about him, but Feryn needs this family to be something. Feryn needs this family to be _alive._

He tears open the paper of the envelope and tugs out the sea-stained letter beneath.

 _Feryn —,_ it reads, _Not sure if you’re still in Paris, but if you are, you need to get to the Louvre. There’s a lot I can’t say and a lot that I don’t want to put in writing. Thing is, sometime this week, an American inventor is off to muck up the world. Sorry. I know a bunch of the Americans are your lot._

_I’m serious, though. The Quartermaster’s been talking about a metal man. Apparently there’s a lot of danger there - military power, that sort of thing. Really there’s a lot I can’t say. Feels like being in the Navy again._

_Hope things are_ _better_ _alright_ _good. Don’t get yourself killed._

_Love,_

_Zolf._

Oh. Damn.

Feryn shuts his eyes against tears in a way that very much doesn’t work, because _fuck._ Because he can hear Zolf between the lines. Because that’s his _baby brother,_ and there’s something dangerous lurking beneath the water, and Feryn can’t protect him.

(Not before, and certainly not now.) 

_Hope things are better,_ Zolf was going to say. It’s nice of him, but that reminder of what Feryn did is just the same sort of slap on the wrist the Harlequins have given him. _Hope things are better,_ Zolf writes. _We’re going to give you some time alone to recuperate,_ Eldarion had told him. Neither of them want to acknowledge the blame that is undoubtedly his. 

Feryn takes a breath. Feryn takes a breath and pulls himself together, pushes away remembrance in favour of sanity, and grabs a pen. 

_Hey-,_ he writes, _Lucky you caught me-_ And he can’t continue. Not now. Not yet. 

Feryn goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaas always, I can be found on discord, tumblr, and twitter at Zoe B!, thoughtsubble, and mostlyzoe respectively. hmu to talk rusty quill at any point!


	6. Bad Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilde goes off alone, Aziza bears bad news, Feryn is in a tight spot, and Brock grows into his family resemblance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot! plot! plot! stealing jaime's brand! enjoy :)

Eight hours of sleep, two breakfasts, and one conversation later, the party has agreed to go see to the Louvre to see Thomas Edison’s presentation that Friday. Wilde slips out on his own to acquire them seats, making meaningful eye contact with Feryn as he asks coyly, “Working for someone with contacts in high places?” 

Feryn raises a brow. “That’s your job,” he says. “Not mine. I deal with the situation, thanks.”  _ Diamonds,  _ he scoffs internally.

_ Mercenaries,  _ Wilde thinks with a roll of his eyes. 

And then it’s gone, the understanding that passes between them as Wilde leaves and Feryn returns to his letter.  _ Hey-,  _ he’d written the night before.  _ Lucky you caught me.  _ He picks up a pen again and continues: 

_ Very much in Paris, very much headed to the Louvre. One of the men I’m working with is a Diamond, so he’s getting us seats to Edison’s exhibition. Turns out there  _ are  _ advantages to posh people. Looks like I can’t stay away from a team, eh?  _

_ When this is over, I’m officially demanding a visit home as your big brother. You do what you have to to get time off from your boat leader, or whatever you call them, because I’ll throttle you myself if it’s another five years. Eleven months is bad enough, you absolute wanker.  _

_ ‘Sides, with the way this team’s going, you’ll get to meet them too. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t survive a week without me, and you’ve got to know what I’m getting at when I tell you how ridiculous they are. I can’t make this shit up, Zolf; they have less impulse control than you do. I know you’re glaring, but I needed a point of reference.  _

_ Things are pretty good. Still haven’t heard any attempt from you to spread the good word, though, unfortunately. Do you have a speech? Stay alive out there. I heard the ocean’s a real prick. _

_ Love,  _

_ Feryn. _

Aziza barges into the room as he seals the letter, looking a little worse for the wear. “Feryn!” she cries, and somehow, her iridescent green button down and silver tulle skirt are still perfect beneath a brown leather bomber jacket. “We’ve got trouble.”

“What sort?” he asks immediately, shoving the letter aside and reaching for the Bag of Holding that contains his weapons. 

“Bad sort,” Brock says, slipping in almost unseen. “Works with the leader of a gang in Other London. Pretty sure they’re the ones who took Sa— uh. My cousin.” 

“And they took Wilde,” Aziza adds anxiously. “Brock and I were late to the carriage, and there was an ambush, and— well, we’re on the list for the Louvre, at least, but— we barely got back.” 

_ “Fuck,”  _ Feryn mutters, shoving the letter in his pocket and standing up.  _ Diamonds _ , for gods’ sakes! “Where’d they take him?”

Brock and Aziza look at each other like colluding children.  _ “Weeeell,”  _ Aziza hedges, drawing out the word like a descending scale, “we don’t really know?”

“Aziza,” Feryn starts, but Brock cuts him off. 

“It’s okay, though! We’re surrounded!” he says, hand already at his knives. “They’ve got eight guys around the hotel.” 

Feryn pinches his brow.  _ “Brock,”  _ he scolds, a bit strangled. “This is — alright. Fine. We’ll work with this. Aziza, you’ve got spells?” She nods. “Brock, you’ve restocked reagents?” 

“Picked them up with Wilde.” 

“Then here’s the plan,” Feryn says, feeling less like a team leader and more disappointed parent. “Take out as many as we can, get a hostage, and press the guy for information—”

_ “Weeeelll,”  _ says Brock, with the same inflection as Aziza, “Le Gourmand is  _ definitely  _ going to want to speak to me.”

Under her breath, Aziza mutters,  _ “Cool.” _

“Wh— Aziza, first of all,  _ no,  _ he’s a gang leader,” Feryn says, holding up a hand, “and Brock, I’m going to need a bit more explanation.”

Brock looks like he regrets speaking and is currently trying to hide inside his leather jacket. “You’ve just gotta trust me,” he mutters, and Feryn takes a deep breath. 

“Brock,” he says, “listen. I do trust you. Alright? I trust you, and that’s why we’re going to follow your lead on this one. You’ve got experience with Le Gourmand? Good. We can use that. It’s your go. Tell us what to do.” 

Brock takes out a knife. Twirls it. Flips it. Nods once. “We go with them,” he says, stubborn as anything, and disappears out the door. 

“Nice!” says Aziza, following him.

“I—  _ fuck,”  _ Feryn mutters so the kids can’t hear him, and shuts the door behind him.  _ Let’s get kidnapped, eh? _

* * *

And so they get kidnapped. Brock, for the first time since arriving in Paris, is deeply in his element. He switches over to gutter French and negotiates a rough deal, bomb prepped, and Aziza looks deeply impressed next to him. 

“You do shit an’ Barret will have your heads, y’hear me?” Brock snaps as the guards bind Feryn and Aziza’s hands. The two men nearest to him, though, look to their leader, who shakes his head, and Brock is left untied. “They’re under my protection, so they’re under  _ his.  _ And you—” Brock surveys the fighters, quick sweep of the eyes, and he notices things. Like, ‘you-didn’t-need-a-nat-20-on-that-but-here-we-are’ things. “You lot are in  _ no  _ place to negotiate with a Rackett, eh?” 

Feryn and Aziza get bags over their heads. Brock doesn’t. In fact, he’s cockier than either of them have ever heard him, almost pulling rank, because these grown men seem to be scared of a deadpan street rat with one hell of an attitude. He rides in the front, like a grown-up, and oh, thank gods.  _ This  _ is how Paris is supposed to be. 

The other two are having a much less leisurely carriage ride, but Brock knows not to complain. He’s got to save his influence, got to keep his sway until it’s important. Brock needs to play to strategy, needs to play to those underground instincts, needs to play to his strengths. He’s not an intimidating guy, but he’s a goddamn Rackett, and Brock knows his own name. 

“Hey,” he growls as one of the guards smacks Feryn forwards, because these people are under his protection. “Easy.” A note crinkles in Brock’s pocket, and he approaches the man driving the carriage with authority under his heels and violence in his fingertips. Because the thing is, Wilde didn’t leave without a trace. Le Gourmand left a note, and it was a note about Sasha. 

“Fuck you want?” the driver asks, and Brock has a knife to his hipbone before he’s finished the sentence.

“Don’t speak to me like that.” The guy winces (reasonable reaction to almost being stabbed) and tries to shift carelessly away, but Brock twists his wrist so the dagger pierces cloth and flesh, slicing a thin line into the skin. “I said  _ don’t.” _

The man hisses with pain but Brock doesn’t move the knife until he asks again, much politer this time, “What do you need, sir?”

_ Better,  _ Brock thinks, and then feels a wave of revulsion, because he sounds just like Barret. “You have information about Sasha,” he says flatly, like he doesn’t care about his best friend in the whole world, and he sounds just like Barret. “I want it.”

“Le Gourmand—”

“Let him know,” Brock cuts him off, lazy, smooth, pushing the man forward with the flat of the blade, and the smile in his voice sounds like Barret. 

The driver looks at him, and sees Barret. “Yessir.” 

_ You’re a shit person,  _ Brock thinks absently at himself, flexing his fingers as he wipes off the bloody dagger on his trousers. The world re-opens itself beyond the realm of Brock’s goal and he can see again, and Feryn is bent double against the side of the carriage, tearing at the bag over his head as Le Gourmand’s men shove it down with more emphasis.  _ You  _ need  _ to be a shit person, sometimes,  _ Brock tells himself, and he doesn’t care if he sounds like Barret.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” he snarls, furious, and loads his wrist sheaths instinctively as he storms over. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing to him?”

“Security dictates they don’t know our location—” one of the muscle replies, and it takes everything in Brock not to slash him straight across the face. How  _ dare  _ they. How  _ dare  _ they treat Feryn like this; how  _ dare they  _ trap him further when he’s already struggling to breathe; how  _ dare they.  _

“They don’t know  _ shit,”  _ Brock spits at the ground, elbowing through the throng to get to Feryn and Aziza. She’s grasping at him, still tied up, like it’ll do any help, and when Brock turns around, his orders are soft, but echo like he leads the place. “Get.  _ Back.”  _

And Le Gourmand’s men submit to a little boy. 

Brock wrenches the sack off Feryn’s head and the dwarf stumbles forward, gasping, shaking, and Brock has never seen him like this. “Feryn—”

“Zolf, you’re—” The name is instinctual, is a reassurance on the exhale, and Feryn stops the second he realises he’s said it. 

“It’s okay,” Brock says quietly, because he’s not made to lead, because he needs Feryn back. “Uh, we’re alright, Feryn.”

“Brock.” The eyes are calm; Feryn straightens as much as he can with his hands bound. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” says Brock, nodding towards the men as he takes Aziza roughly by one arm, hissing through his teeth, _ “Just go with it; I’m the most gentle you’ll get.”  _

“I’m—” Feryn clears his throat, walks forward with as much dignity as he can manage. “I’m sorry; I’m not good with sm—”

“Y’don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Brock interrupts, glancing over. “Like, I get it, mate. Thanks for coming. Getting kidnapped can be a real bummer, yknow?”

“No  _ kidding,”  _ Aziza complains from below, and Brock steps on her toe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! recent updates to my twitter handle mean you can find me there @ucbamba; my tumblr has remained the same (thoughtsubble)! come hmu to talk forbidden au, rusty quill, or I don't know - the weather or something. thank you for reading, and comments/kudos are dearly loved and appreciated!!


	7. Delicate Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brock has moral qualms, Aziza gets an attitude, Feryn is a good dad, and Wilde spends 90% of the chapter unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one im particularly partial to. is le gourmand based on alex? you cant prove anything. enjoy!

“‘Sup, Jules,” is how Brock addresses Le Gourmand, his arms folded casually across his chest as he steps into the lair of Paris’ greatest crime boss. “Where’s Wilde?”

“Oh, good,” says Jules Boucher, his voice like gravel. He’s a big man in a too-nice suit, and the name  _ the Greedy  _ almost coins itself. Brock rolls his eyes. “You’re here.”

“Where’s Wilde?” says Brock again, a bit more annoyed. “I mean, you’ve got to want something from us, right?”

“Just to speak with  _ you,  _ Brock,” says Le Gourmand, and is it really overkill if Brock rolls his eyes again? He’s genre savvy; he’s allowed an extra. “I trust you got the invitation.”

Brock thrusts the crumpled note forward, then drops it on the ground. “Expected better stationary, really.” 

Jules smiles like a paper cut. “Cute,” he drawls in a French whose accent is far too posh for the situation.

“Go fuck yourself,” Brock replies, off the cuff. “Where’s Wilde?” 

“Your father isn’t so…  _ vulgar,”  _ Jules says, standing as he circles the trio, looking Brock up and down. “It’s quite disappointing. He’s such a principled man, and you don’t look quite ready to follow in his footsteps, hm?”

Aziza’s started crying very quietly, still under the hood, and Feryn has pulled her tight against his side on instinct. She’s  _ trying  _ to be brave, she is, but sometimes bravery doesn’t encompass fearlessness after being shoved into the boot of a carriage and rattled around Paris. Sometimes bravery doesn’t encompass feeling fine after seeing your boss have a claustrophobia-induced panic attack. Sometimes she’s not brave, she’s scared, but Aziza al-Tahan will be damned if she let’s a few tears get in the way of making sure her team’s alright. 

“Where’s Wilde?” Brock asks again, acutely aware of what’s going on behind him, and he tilts up his chin to look Jules in the eyes. “We don’t talk until you bring him out.” 

Feryn’s gone tense, because he’s sure Wilde has Harlequin information. Crime rings don’t care for rules, just or otherwise. Diamonds might not wear rings, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not recognisable, and Wilde is stupid enough to let himself get caught. 

(Of course, it’s not like Le Gourmand was going to pass up the chance to question a Meritocratic officer, but Feryn doesn’t know that. Ah, dramatic irony.) 

Jules’ expression doesn’t change from that awful smugness, but he nods. “And you’ll cooperate?”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Brock warns, loading his wrist sheaths. “You don’t hurt them. You don’t hurt  _ me.  _ Make your demands, but I know damn well that you disappointed my father the last time you met with him. ‘Not enough brains,’ I think were his exact words. It wasn’t a pretty aftermath, Jules.” 

Smile frozen in place, Jules nods at one of the men lining the walls, and Aziza is ripped from Feryn’s side and held aloft with a knife to her throat. “Remember who’s in charge here,” Jules murmurs, leaning in. “This isn’t London, little one.” 

Brock makes every effort not to spit in his face. “I said  _ don’t _ — _ ” _

“I’m not hurting her,” Jules reminds him as Aziza spits curses in her captor’s direction, and that smirk is perfectly real now. “But I  _ could,  _ see. I make no promises.”

“We agreed—”

“I don’t make agreements with children,” says Le Gourmand, sanguine and nasty, and Brock sets his jaw. 

“Where’s Wilde?”

A side door slams open on cue (literally on cue, we need to move the plot along, people) and a knocked out Wilde is dragged unceremoniously inwards before being thrown on the stone floor. Jules steps around the body, his foot crushing one of Wilde’s fingers as he goes, and Feryn looks absolutely  _ murderous.  _ “Are you ready to speak now, Brock?” he asks, and Aziza is dropped to the ground, and Brock is adrift, Brock is lost, Brock is so fucking angry and gods sakes, if there’s any time to be the most effective parts of his father—

“As his current— employer,” Feryn says, stepping up behind Brock and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “and leader of the Hirald and Sons Mercenary company—”

“It’s a family name,” Aziza sniffles, scrambling up next to Brock and taking her place there. 

“—you deal with me,” Feryn continues, solid and stoic.  _ “We’re  _ ready to speak now, thanks.”

Jules looks at them like they’re a quaint family photo.  _ “Gooood,”  _ he hums, like somebody you should know. “Good. You’re going to give me something.”

“We’re not going to do—” Brock starts, but Feryn holds him back with a squeeze of the shoulder as Jules circles back around, giving Wilde a sharp kick to roll the body in front of them. 

“Tell us what it is first,” Feryn says cautiously, and Jules smiles. Everything he does is razor-edged, catlike, despite the bulk. 

“Barret and I are in conversation,” he says carelessly, and one of the henchmen brings him a glass of wine unbidden.  _ The Greedy, the Greedy, the Greed _ . “You’re going to Edison’s event. In his diary will be plans for a kill switch to his project. You will find it, and share it with me.” 

“Why would we do that?” Aziza asks shakily, glaring as she opens her pack, looks at Wilde, then takes out two Cure Light Wounds. “Like, if you don’t, you’ll probably just kill us, and that doesn’t go well for anyone’s goals.”

Jules looks down at her and something gleams in his eyes. “Ms al-Tahan,” he purrs, velvet and awful, “there are other ways to get what I want.”

“Cool, that’s creepy,” Aziza replies, kneeling as she uncorks one of the potions and pours it down Wilde’s throat. He groans but doesn’t wake up, more reflex than response. “What are you really getting at here?”

“I’m a man of reason,” Jules says, and that cold delight still radiates in his face. “I want what is necessary. And in the event that you  _ don’t  _ get the killswitch, I need insurance.”

“What makes you think we’re going to do what you say in the first place?” Feryn nearly growls, stepping in front of Aziza and Wilde as she opens another potion. “We have no incentive—”

“Yes, we do,” Brock mutters. “He’s— he owns this place, Feryn.”  _ And he will blackmail Barret with my captivity without a second thought,  _ he thinks, because Le Gourmand is  _ greedy  _ to hold some modicum of power over the Rackett family.  _ And I’m screwed if he finds out Barret won’t give a fuck. _ “Listen, Jules, we both know this goes back to Barret. I know you’re reporting to him. That’s the reason you get to be in charge here.  _ Sir.”  _

Silence.

The air is congealed with tension as Feryn looks to Brock looks to Aziza looks to Wilde, still unconscious because sometimes a girl rolls minimum on Cure Light Wounds and has to use her last one. Feryn looks to Brock and does a quick eye check, a  _ trust  _ check, and Brock stands his ground. 

And Feryn, for better or for worse, stands behind him. 

“Very well, then,” Jules says as Wilde finally comes to, sputtering and coughing even as the magic seals up his wounds. Even after the healing, Aziza sees how  _ awful  _ he looks, and she knows that this wasn’t just a brutalisation. Le Gourmand is sending a message. “Insurance.” He nods to Aziza. “You’d be willing to communicate with me, Ms. al-Tahan?”

“Yes,  _ fine,” _ Aziza says carelessly, all her energy focused on making sure Wilde doesn’t hack up a lung. “I— hey. Hey, you’re alright, Wilde, I’ve gotcha— I mean, your clothes are a wreck, but they were like that before you got kidnapped—”

“Messages go to me,” Feryn cuts in, folding his arms over his chest. Jules smiles at him, because there’s nothing Feryn can do. 

“And what do you have to offer me, Mr Smith?” Jules asks, his eyes flicking to the ring and back up again. “Certainly not the same thing as your associate, I’d imagine.” 

Le Gourmand is toying with him, and Feryn’s chest seizes up. “I’m her employer,” he says evenly. “Messages go to  _ me.”  _

Jules pauses. Looks Feryn up and down. “And you agree to keep prompt correspondence?” he asks, like there is a secret Feryn doesn’t know hidden in the words. (Truth be told, there is.) 

“Sure,” says Feryn flatly, and Le Gourmand pulls out a shining platinum ring from his pocket, twirling it once between his fingers before handing it over.

“Good,” he murmurs, arm outstretched, when—

_ “Fuck you,  _ Jules,” Brock snaps, snatching the ring and jamming it on his finger, fury blazing in his eyes. “They’re not a part of this. There’s no need for them to be a part of this. Okay? I’ll take your calls. You and Barret get what you want. Now  _ tell me about Sasha.”  _

Le Gourmand doesn’t seem fazed. “As happy as she can be,” he says. “In the city, you know. We’re taking good care of her.” 

Brock doesn't know what he does next. Looking back on it, he barely remembers. He just stares and stares and stares and stares and Feryn eventually takes him by the shoulder and leads Brock away, away, away. 

* * *

Wilde’s not doing great. He can walk but not well, and Aziza’s out of healing potions, which means he’s leaning heavily on Feryn and focused more on staying upright than speaking. (An improvement, one might say, to his usual demeanour, but that would be rude.) The four of them collapse into Feryn’s hotel room and dump Wilde on the couch, exhausted and shaken and shaking.

“Can I share your room tonight?” Aziza whispers to Brock as Feryn scours his luggage for his last few potions, and Brock nods. 

“Brock, keep him awake,” Feryn says as he finds a Cure Light Wounds, and it sure would be useful to have a cleric now, wouldn’t it? “And upright, please. Magic can’t help enough if we’re doing damage.” 

“Sure thing.” Wilde’s eyes are bleary and unfocused as Brock approaches, but he’s pretty sure Le Gourmand didn’t poison him. He’s too stringent to waste money on a squishy Meritocratic officer anyway. “You good, mate?”

Wilde presses a hand to his ribs and sucks in air through his nose. “Absolutely  _ fine,  _ thanks,” he says with enough sarcasm to create a lethal injection. 

“He’s fine,” Brock calls back to Feryn, and Aziza snorts with laughter for the first time that night. Feryn finally grabs his potion and uncorks it, crossing the room in a few short steps. It’s a big place for one guy, but a squeeze for the lot of them. 

“Jokes later, kiddo,” Feryn says, patting him on the shoulder as Wilde starts coughing again. “Le Gourmand’s men did a number on him, eh?”

“Jules is a bastard,” Brock says, and his voice is flatter than Feryn’s ever heard it. “Not surprised. Looking for information, I guess.” 

Brock watches Feryn’s face darken, watches his eyes flit to his ring and back to Wilde, watches his shoulders tense. “Guess so,” Feryn says, purposefully neutral, and  _ oh.  _ Holy fucking shit. Brock knows that type of ring. That’s a  _ Harlequin  _ ring, and— Feryn thinks that Wilde’s a Harlequin. Feryn thinks that Wilde’s a Harlequin, and— holy fucking shit. Holy  _ shit.  _ Brock is suddenly slammed with the memory of their conversation over breakfast: Wilde asking about contacts in high places; Feryn responding that it was  _ Wilde’s  _ job, not his. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Feryn thinks Wilde’s a Harlequin, and here’s the kicker: Wilde thinks Feryn’s a Meritocratic mercenary.  _ I should tell them,  _ Brock thinks briefly, as he watches Wilde down two potions, as Feryn tells him to be more careful, as the whimsical light returns to the bard’s eyes and he makes three puns at Feryn’s expense before the warning speech is over. 

_ I should not tell them,  _ Brock decides.  _ This is really fucking funny.  _

“Hey, Aziza,” he whispers.

“Hm?” she asks, looking up from where she’s been fiddling with the box of complementary matches she snagged from the hotel in chapter two. (Continuity, guys.)

“C’mere.” 

Aziza smells gossip and nods towards the door like a covert operation. “Night, guys! Don’t stay up too late!” she trills, then yanks Brock into the hall. “Okay. What’s the deal?” 

Brock barely makes it into his room before bursting into laughter, and Aziza is already laughing with him.

* * *

The next morning, a piece of mail comes to the front desk in his name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaas always come hmu on tumblr or twitter at thoughtsbubble or ucbamba respectively! comments and kudos are deeply appreciated, and thank you for reading :)


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brock checks the mail, Aziza is posh, Wilde is petty, Feryn does some top-notch managing, and they all fall down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! I wish I had a regular update schedule. And Yet. enjoy!

_ Brock— _

_ Bit of help. Miss you. Red always wins. _

_ Sasha. _

That’s the only thing on the note. The receipt attached is a completely different story. There are so many zeroes that Brock feels dizzy, and he only remembers the name of the hotel because it was so damn tall he asked Wilde what the place was used for when they’d first arrived in Paris. 

The presidential suite. Of La Triomphe. Held in perpetuity. For  _ Brock Rackett.  _

He’s pretty sure someone’s fucking with him. And Sasha— Sasha wouldn’t get him this. Sasha wouldn’t even know how to buy it. But there’s no one else who would care that much about Brock in the world,  _ no one.  _

Brock tucks the note into his pocket and goes to find Wilde. Wilde will know what to do, and if he doesn’t, then Feryn will. But Aziza’s  _ also _ rich, so she might know what to do as well. It’s a whole new world! 

Besides, today’s Edison day. Brock is going to go to the goddamn Louvre. His life has gotten so weird in the last week that this doesn’t feel too out of place.  _ Can I rob the Louvre?  _ he thinks as he clambers upstairs to Wilde’s room, then decides against it. There will probably be too much security to do so tonight. 

Wilde’s not in his room. Brock goes from concerned to annoyed in about five seconds, and barges carelessly into Feryn’s place (which, by his standards, means that he is slightly louder than noise absorbent). “Wilde, you’re posh,” he says, digging around in his pocket for the memo. “What the hell is this?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Brock promptly realises that it’s five in the morning. He’s about to leave when blankets shift and Feryn sits up, clearing his throat. “...Brock?” he asks, fumbling for a lightswitch. “Is everything alright?”

“I was, uh— I had a question for Wilde, but um— I forgot it was early,” Brock mumbles, cheeks heating as he backs towards the door. “I’ll—”

“Brock?” Too late. Oops. Brock feels a bit bad, but also kind of pleased that he doesn’t have to wait much longer. 

“Hey, Wilde.”

“You get back to sleep okay?” Feryn asks under his breath, and Wilde shoots him a dirty look. Feryn’s face says  _ ‘why do I even bother?’  _ as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, which is a typical response after being nice to Wilde. Brock, who notices things, sees this miniature exchange play out and tucks it away for later.

“I got a letter,” he butts in awkwardly, pushing it in Wilde direction. “Well. A telegram. From— Sasha.”

Wilde draws a breath in through his nose, then snaps his fingers. It’s not until he casts Prestidigitation that Brock realises the circles under his eyes weren’t just shadow, but he keeps his mouth shut.  _ “Sasha?”  _ Wilde asks meaningfully, taking the letter, and Brock nods.

“Sasha.”

“The one who was taken?” Feryn asks, face softening as he runs a hand through sleep-mussed hair. “Is she okay? Are— are you okay?” 

“I mean,” Brock says, shrugging, “She’s got enough money for—”

_ “Gods,”  _ Wilde breathes, like he’s holding back a string of curses. “That’s—”

“The presidential suite of La Triomphe hotel,” Brock finishes, plopping down on the ground and fiddling with one of his many knives. “Yeah.” He stares at the floor. “I… don’t even know if it’s her, I mean— the note’s typed. I don’t even know if it’s  _ real.  _ Matter of fact, uh— I’m pretty sure it’s not, actually, there’s no one in the world who would—” Brock puffs air out of his cheeks, focuses on a knot in the wood. “I don’t know.” 

Feryn and Wilde exchange a look over Brock’s head, and Brock is suddenly reminded of being a very small child and sneaking into his parents’ bedroom after a nightmare. He learned quickly that Barret wasn’t to be bothered,  _ ever,  _ and especially not when Brock was being pathetic and small and weak. He learned quickly not to ask, but here he is. Brock does not have the tools to think about why he made this decision, and so he doesn’t.

“Let’s get Aziza,” Feryn says finally. “She might be able to help out with determining the authenticity.” 

“We  _ are  _ going to find Sasha, Brock,” Wilde says as he deliberately folds his borrowed blanket, then chucks it in Feryn’s direction.  _ (“Thanks,”  _ says the dwarf, completely flat.) For once, he actually seems serious. “Whatever happened in the catacombs, we  _ will  _ figure it out.” 

Brock stares. “...are you actually being genuine?”

Wilde grins, and he's himself again. “Tunnel vision, I suppose,” he says, and Brock rolls his eyes as Wilde winks. “Don’t hold it against me.” 

Brock makes a vaguely threatening gesture with his knife and leaves to go find Aziza, but the truth is that — well. It was nice. And he’s not going to think about the implications. 

* * *

Aziza is almost speechless when she sees the receipt, which lets everyone else know that it is, in fact, real. “I’ve stayed in this hotel before,” she says by way of explanation. “Even renting that place is  _ ridiculous.  _ Your Sasha’s got connections, Brock, and pretty fucking rich ones. Like— my family probably couldn’t buy that suite, and we’re the  _ Tahans.”  _

“But it’s mine,” says Brock, a little disappointed that he can’t steal it.

“It’s yours,” Aziza confirms, passing it back to him. “It’s big enough for a small family— well, it could probably fit a large family, actually. I’ve never seen it, but the rooms in that place are  _ big.”  _

“I mean, you guys can stay in it,” Brock says as he glances around the room, folding his arms. “Maybe it’s meant for one of you, anyway. I don’t— I dunno. It’s all— it’s not right. Sasha just got taken and then— I don’t get it.”

Aziza climbs onto a nearby table and gives Brock a tight hug. “We’ll figure it out,” she promises, and she says it like she believes it. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Brock mutters, and he doesn’t quite hug her back, but he doesn’t turn away. 

_ We’ll figure it out.  _ Everyone’s saying that. If he’s not careful, Brock will start to think so, too.

* * *

That night, the lot of them get significantly closer to figuring it out. Because they’re in a sewer. Because Edison’s expo blew up. Because Hirald and Sons (it’s a family name) tried to follow the bombers and ended up taking a nice trip down Paris’ plumbing. Because Edison’s simulacrum led them to five more clues and a notebook, and it’s definitely what Le Gourmand wants. Because the sewers led to the catacombs, and this is what they wanted all along. 

Basically, it’s gonna be fine. Bye!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hand waving_ yall know where to find me. thanks for reading!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziza is efficient, Brock is right at home, Wilde lightens the mood, and Feryn is (understandably) stressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wahoo it's the forbidden au !! enjoy :)

A dwarf, a halfling, a human, and a tall asshole tumble into a pit of filth. This is a joke without a punchline: it’s literally what’s happening. 

“Fuck!” says Aziza as they skid to a halt before falling into the pool of Paresian grime, and that’s a pretty good reaction to the whole affair. “Oh, fuck,  _ gross!”  _

They’re in a pipe. The lot of them are stuck at the mouth of a ten-foot across sewage drain slick with green slime, nearly dropped into a man-made pool of filth, and are covered in muck. Aziza squirms out of the pipe first and flings herself onto solid ground, wailing the words “Gross, gross  _ gross!”  _ in minor thirds as she casts Prestidigitation. 

Wilde scrambles out after her, snapping his fingers and smoothing out the nonexistent creases in his long, chestnut skirt and cream coloured button down. (Aziza had dressed on the opposite side of fancy when they’d gotten ready, wearing a purple sequined waistcoat, a navy blue blazer with shoulder pads, and turquoise slacks embroidered with constellations, having told Wilde that he looked like a sad librarian.)

Brock and Feryn are left to climb out on their own, dripping with assorted sludge bits too downright gross to describe in detail as they clamber, sopping, onto the ledge by the drainage pit. “Nice one, guys,” Feryn says, hands on his hips. “That’s really nice.” Aziza smiles sweetly and casts Prestidigitation. On Brock. Feryn only has to  _ look  _ at her before she cleans him up too, and this means that they can focus on getting their bearings. 

“D’yknow where we are?” Brock mumbles, reaching into the messenger bag that he always carries but is never mentioned and pulling out a compass. “Cause this should lead to the catacombs, reasonably. Right?”

“Brock?” says Aziza, pinching her nose. “Can we do this somewhere it doesn’t fucking reek?” 

Brock seems to just now notice the smell, which is  _ a lot.  _ Being so close, they really all  _ should  _ be taking the Sickened condition, but the plot doesn’t have the time. “Oh, uh— right,” he says, sweeping a glance across the room and finding the door first, because he notices things. “This way.”

“This  _ is  _ the catacombs,” Wilde says as they make their way into a thin tunnel, and Feryn sends him a dirty look before realising he has more to say. “I was involved in the original project of figuring out what’s down here, and there were… quite a few maps that seemed to mark this place. If I remember correctly, this is one of the oldest sections.”

“The fact that it’s almost entirely unworked stone would seem to support that,” Aziza points out, grinning as the tunnel begins to darken and immediately  _ not _ grinning when she trips on a loose stone and nearly faceplants. “Fuck!”

Wilde sighs and casts Dancing Lights. “Careful,” he says, “bit of a rocky road down here.” 

Aziza glares in silence. “That was  _ weak,”  _ she complains, and Brock silently reloads his wrist sheaths. 

“Test me when I  _ haven’t  _ just fallen down a drainage pipe,” Wilde says stiffly, snuffing out the lights, “and  _ maybe  _ I’ll let it slide.”

“Hey!” Aziza cries, laughing, and Wilde cracks a smile as he hums the glow into existence again. “You rude… oh!  _ Low blow,  _ Wilde, low blow!” He looks down at her. “Get it? because we’re underground?” 

“...No,” Wilde says, attempting deadpan. “Aziza, that’s  _ awful.” _

The Dancing Lights sweep down the hallway and back again, casting Feryn in stark shadow. His features are pulled tight, stressed, as Aziza tries to get Brock on her side (“It makes sense; don’t laugh at me!”) and Wilde lets the pair of them walk ahead, bickering and laughing and following the glowing dots. “Are you in need of a night light, my dear sir?” 

Feryn doesn’t look at him, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even shoot him a withering look. “I can see.”

“Looking a bit stony, is all,” Wilde says, almost teasing, and Feryn’s jaw clenches. 

“Wilde. Don’t.”

_ This  _ is new. “What’s wrong?” he asks, hiking up the skirt to avoid a puddle of what he  _ hopes  _ is water.

“Nothing,” Feryn lies, and Wilde barely refrains from rolling his eyes. He’s heard stories of Meritocratic mercenaries: stubborn and righteous and moral for people working on contract, and Feryn seems to be no exception. 

“What’s wrong, Feryn?” Wilde asks again, and Feryn glares at him. 

“I don’t like small spaces,” he mutters finally, huffing air to the ground. “But it’s  _ nothing.  _ I’m fine.” 

“I can—”

“It’s fine,” Feryn snaps again, so Wilde lets it go. (He does cast Silent Image, though, to widen the walls with an illusion, and it is as much for Feryn’s benefit as it is to cure Wilde’s boredom by making up lyrics with Brock and Aziza.) 

* * *

About twenty minutes in, they get lost. Brock, who can navigate underground, does some calculations and determines that the way towards worked stone is East, and it works, kind of. The compass leads them in the right direction until the tunnel curves, and veers into unmarked territory. And it's  _ old.  _ It’s dead old, smelling like musk and petrichor and damp, and Wilde’s lights throw shapes on the walls.

“This is…  _ tedious, _ ” Wilde announces, in hopes of at least lightening the mood. Feryn, who hasn’t said anything in a while, looks to him with something that might be flat annoyance or murderous rage in his eyes.

“Are you really  _ bored  _ right now?” he asks, and there’s something there. Wilde doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something  _ there.  _

“Practically cata _ tomb _ ic,” he says instead of any useful emotional support, but Feryn snorts, which counts. 

“How can you be  _ bored?”  _ Feryn runs a hand through his hair as Wilde shrugs absently, peering forwards as the Dancing Lights fly into an intersection of rickety tunnels.

“Not much to see down here,” Wilde says with a light sigh, and Feryn’s stare is almost incredulous. There’s something there. There’s absolutely something there, and Wilde can’t tell what it is, and that’s— frustrating. 

“Hey!” Aziza yells over her shoulder, grinning. “Look, we found three more tunnels!”

“Aziza—” Brock says warningly as Feryn and Wilde catch up, a crease in his brow. “No, there’s something wrong here. I— I mean, I know tunnels, right? They’re not like this. Or, well. They ain’t supposed to be like this.” 

“What’s wrong?” Wilde asks, but Feryn seems to recognise the issue, and there’s something  _ there,  _ there’s  _ something there.  _ “We should go back the way we came if there’s a chance of danger—”

“It’s the top, see,” says Brock, “it’s— I dunno. I can’t tell. Most of the tunnels in Other London were paved, but these— these are like the ones that kept shifting our memories around, and—”

The city groans. The tunnels creak. The last thing Wilde sees before he’s buried by rubble is Feryn’s face going absolutely white.    
  



	10. Downhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Imogen voice] Yikes.

Oscar Wilde, for maybe (definitely) the first time in the campaign, isn’t being useless during initiative order. He’s also suffocating, so like, perspective, but at least there’s something. There’s a moment of blind panic, first, before realising what the fuck is happening and shoving himself out. He’s not sure how he does it, in truth; he’s not strong or fast or small but manage it he does, skirt torn and blouse ragged, standing atop the pile of rubble with his heart beating in his ears. 

_ Come on. You know what you’re doing. Come on.  _

None of the spells at his fingertips work for saving people from catacomb collapses, not really, so Wilde listens for the sound of struggle and casts Mage Hand, flinging a rock aside ineffectually and doing his best not to completely freak out. Okay. Okay,  _ come on.  _ Come on, you’re  _ better than this.  _ Come on,  _ think.  _ Come on,  _ process.  _

Okay. He’s alright. He’s fine. For starters, he’s out of the rubble. He’s breathing. He’s standing. He’s got to find Feryn, Brock, and Aziza, and do it quickly. 

A collection of rocks stir from nearby, and Wilde rushes towards it, hefting away the largest rock he can manage (which isn’t that big, but we’ll go easy on him). It’s enough for Brock to wriggle out of, coughing, sputtering, sliding from the stone like it was never there in the first place. “What the  _ fuck,”  _ the rogue gasps, spitting dust as he clambers atop the wreckage.

“Language.”

_ “Really?” _

Wilde shoots Brock a slightly strained grin and extends a hand, pulling Brock’s remaining remaining ankle out of the collapse and keeping a close enough eye on the kid to be responsible. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Brock says, spitting dirt. “Where’s--” He scans the rubble, brow furrowing. “Aziza and Feryn, have you--”

“Not yet.” Wilde’s unease is palpable, and Brock doesn’t even pause to catch his breath before delving back into the rocks. “Hey--”

“Come on,  _ dig,”  _ he snaps, and Wilde feels that familiar fear seize his chest, because rooting around isn’t going to do anything now. It’s too late. They had their window, and missed it, and there’s only so much air. (Mechanically, they can hold their breath for a wicked amount of time, but for the drama, they can’t.)

“We need to find them,” Wilde says, as time ticks away, six seconds per round. “We-- don’t dig, just listen.”

“Then shut up!” says Brock, and Wilde can see the terror in his eyes, the only thing flashing in the pitch black. For a moment the only thing Wilde hears is his own racing heart again, threatening to drown him. And then--

_ “Aziza,”  _ Brock breathes, clambering to a pile of rocks a few feet away and making quick work of it. Wilde stays quiet, still. Feryn hasn’t made a sound. Feryn hasn’t kicked at the rock around him or clawed a hand into the air. The rubble’s  _ heavy,  _ and so many chunks fell on their heads at once that really, Wilde should be entertaining the possibility that Feryn’s--

Aziza’s coughing drags him away from that edge as Brock sets her down, wild-eyed and ready to fight. “Is everyone okay?” she asks before she can properly breathe. “Are we--” Hacking up a lung, she continues nonetheless, “Are we all here?”

“No,” Wilde says grimly, as Brock sits back on his haunches. “Stay put, Aziza, but when you’re ready, we all need to find Feryn.”

She stumbles over herself in her haste. “He’s still in there?”

“Stay  _ put,”  _ Wilde repeats. “It’s dark and you need to save your energy. Actually--” He has Cure Light Wounds for a reason, and hums a quiet, familiar tune as he casts it. A few lacerations on Aziza’s arm knit themselves together, and her cough disappears. He should’ve done that earlier. “Brock?” 

“I’m good.” 

And there-- there’s the tiniest shift of stone on stone, the smallest noise. Brock is off after it like a shot, starting to heft rocks, and, “Wait--” Wilde calls, hearing trouble and seeing Feryn’s terrified face at the collapse, knowing that this won’t end well. “Wait!”

“No, I’ve got it,” says Brock, wrapping his arms around a boulder and heaving with all his might. “I’ve got it, Wilde, just--”

_ “Wait--”  _ Aziza cries, sensing it too, but the rock has already shifted, and Brock goes down. Worse still is the scream that rips through the rubble, low and familiar and gods, Feryn’s still under there,  _ hurt.  _

“Aziza, you’ve got to help me,” Wilde says, running through plan after useless plan in his mind.

“I’m way too small for this!” she says, dusting herself off. “We’ll all be crushed, Oscar, and that won’t help anything or anyone in the least.”

“It looks like we’ll be crushed either way,” he replies quickly, and Aziza’s already trying to yank the boulder off of Brock. “Here, let me --”

“On three,” she says, and counts them off before sending the rock rolling down the passageway. (I say rolling; it’s more a two-foot slide.) 

“Moving away from  _ crushing  _ defeat,” Wilde proclaims as he spends another Cure Light Wounds - on Brock, this time - and Aziza glares.

“Is this really the time?”

“It’s always the time,” says Wilde, one spell failure away from a panic attack. “You with us, Brock?”

“My--” The boy props himself up, swallows. Pats himself down, sort of, like he’s feeling for his knives. “My-- I can’t use my arm, Wilde, I don’t -- why can’t I feel my arm?”

Aziza has returned to lifting rocks off of Feryn’s buried body as well as she can manage, and Wilde had wanted to help -- was about to help, actually, before Brock spoke and he felt a stone drop in his stomach. “What?”

“You did something wrong,” Brock says, frantic, and Wilde’s never heard him like this before. “You didn’t-- it didn’t heal me enough, Wilde, you’ve got to do it again, you’ve got to-- to do something, Wilde, please--”

Feryn’s going to die. Feryn’s going to die if Wilde takes another moment to go over Brock’s arm, to see whether or not it’s nerve damage, to cast another spell. (This is the point where the author begins to get very, very worried, see, because even when factoring in the mechanical ridiculousness of how long player characters can hold their breath, this situation is looking very bad.)

If Wilde doesn’t act  _ right now,  _ Feryn’s going to die. And it’s not his time. (Not yet.)

“One moment, Brock,” Wilde says, and he sounds far off to his own ears as he helps Aziza pull out larger stones, helps her clear an air pocket for Feryn. It’s his responsibility. It’s his fault, if Brock can’t use the arm anymore. It was on  _ him  _ to heal Brock, and he can’t - not can’t, didn’t; he had a decision to make and he still can’t tell if he’s going to be able to help everyone make it out alive.

Oscar Wilde isn’t suffocating anymore, but he still can’t fucking  _ breathe.  _

Then Feryn’s head breaks the surface with a gasp and Wilde collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, full-on hyperventilating, because they were all  _ so close  _ to being dead and there are so many repercussions he hasn’t yet thought through and it’s all going to hell and Brock needs him, Brock  _ needs him  _ and he can’t pull himself together and come on, come  _ on,  _ at least Feryn’s alive. At least they’re all  _ alive.  _

Feryn’s hand is crushed and mangled beneath a miniature avalanche of Brock’s creation, and Wilde doesn’t have any healing potions, but at least they’re  _ alive.  _

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are much appreciated as always. come find me on tumblr @thoughtsbubble, on twitter @mostlyzoe or hanging out in the rqdbfc! I am always down to chat about rq :)


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